Champion
by Kiliflower
Summary: These are the children who lived, the ones who made it out, the boys and girls who gave up everything to survive. These are the stories of the seventy-five victors of The Hunger Games. Previously titled 'The 75'. [28/75]
1. A Note By One Mr Fowler

**This fic was inspired by writers such as Oisin55, who is a clever, innovative and simply brilliant storyteller, and Gamemaker97, who has brought The Hunger Games fanfiction community together in such an incredibly creative way. I can only hope to write half as well as they do. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.**

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_A forward by Nicomachus Fowler, author, biographer, former journalist and self-confessed Hunger Games enthusiast:_

When you get right down to it, Panem society breaks its Hunger Games victors into several categories: the popular, the historic and the overlooked. This is not to objectify, demean or denounce their achievements – each Victor, regardless of his or her background, has left their own unique mark on this fine nation. Some continue on to make improvements with fashion and style, others with trade, art or technology. When they leave the Arena, trumpets blaring and crowds bellowing, a part of me is both saddened and invigorated. It makes me think: who will be their successor? Will they make a good mentor? What will they do now the Games are done?

To those of you who have never met a winner of a Hunger Games, let me tell you something. They are a bold, bizarre and quite bamboozling species. There is an eagerness to be seen, yet, more often than not, an unwillingness to be heard. Before this book, I had met just over a dozen of the more recent and sociable Games alumni whilst still in the field of journalism and my experience was overall quite pleasant (save for one unlucky incident wherein I was told where I could put my writing apparatus). Yet I felt a burning longing to know who had come before them and paved the way and even then, knowing their names was not enough. I needed depth; I craved a story and an explanation.

That is why I, through countless hours of research, investigation and interviewing (though admittedly, at times, it felt more like interrogation due to reluctance on the subject's part) have written this account of all of Panem's Hunger Games victors (up to the conclusion of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games), and I sincerely hope it is as enlightening for you as it was for me. If they were capable of speech, I made them speak. My determination might translate as rash, perhaps even rude. But I'm proud of my work. I have lost many nights of sleep over this, and I pray it shows.

As I am sure you already know, we are soon to have our Third Quarter Quell, in which only past victors are to participate. While I do feel melancholic to know that only one of these wonderful men and women will return, perhaps this book will aid in lessening the toil on the heart. It does for me.

Happy Hunger Games to all!

N.F.


	2. Peridot

Peridot Strauss was a poster boy for his home district. He had close-cropped golden hair, deep blue eyes and a trim, muscular figure that caused women to swoon and men to ask what his exercise routine was.

Yet for all his handsomeness, he shrivelled up like a coward as he faced the president.

He was sat in a straight wooden chair, and she in a large comfortable one made of finest leather. She was a plump woman, with a face that could be kindly but instead had a permanent grimace. Her dark hair was held back in a bun and she wore horn-rimmed glasses attached to a chain around her neck. The only thing that marked her as person of supreme authority was her dark business suit and pencil skirt. Peridot couldn't help but think how much she looked like the librarian in their old school, which had been blasted to rubble during the war.

A bomb struck the school three days after his parents removed him from his studies.

Peridot's mother and father died four months later in a hail of bullets as their small family tried to flee a rebel-Peacekeeper battle.

There was a clink of china and Peridot looked up. The President was pouring him tea, and he blinked, confused. _The President was pouring him tea_.

"Well, Mr. Strauss," she said in a flat tone, "let's begin, shall we? I think you know why you're here."

Peridot hesitated, and when he spoke it was with a quiver.

"I did something wrong."

President Tide raised her eyebrows. "A curious answer," she said. "Explain."

"I…I was picked for those…those…" Peridot struggled to find the right words, because he couldn't call them games because in games you used toys or crayons, not swords and spears. And nobody died. Nobody killed.

"You are referring to The Hunger Games?"

Peridot nodded, averting his gaze once more.

"Mr. Strauss, you did nothing wrong during the Games. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You represented your district honourably and courageously and you – and they – will be rewarded appropriately," said Tide, taking a sip of her tea and leaning back in her leather armchair.

Peridot's eyes widened and it took a few moments for her words to sink in. "But I didn't want to! I was told I'd be killed if I didn't do what I was told!"

President Tide cocked her head. "True. You would have been killed by the other competitors. Such is the nature of the Games."

Her aloofness was infuriating, and a heat was rising inside Peridot, the kind of anger and ferocity that had saved his skin on the streets of District 1 where he had spent days, sometimes weeks upon end crouched in doorways or under bridges. Then winter came, and he could feel death coming, and his instinct led him to darker and seedier forms of survival. Landlords weary with loneliness, war widows who wept and whispered their husband's names as they clung to Peridot, all in exchange for shelter and warmth and a bed…

It kept him alive… until the announcement of The Hunger Games.

As penance for their revolt, a revolt that District 1 had only half-heartedly partaken in, all the districts would offer up a boy and girl to fight to the death in the Capitol. Only one of them would be allowed live.

Whispers spread throughout the entire district. It couldn't happen. It just wasn't feasible, it wouldn't pass, this 'Hunger Games Act', and they would all scrape their lives back together and go back to their miserable yet peaceful existence as it was before.

But then the day came with the men and women in the bright white uniforms and the Capitol envoys in all their luminescence and they gathered up all the children and took a sample of their blood and recorded their information and then left without another word.

They returned in the summer and took Peridot and a sixteen-year-old girl called Almanda. She cried all the way to the Capitol and asked the escort if she could write to her parents before the 'pageant'.

She got a slap across the face for her audacity.

The twenty four of them were shoved into separate cells, Almanda in the one opposite Peridot and he watched her cry herself to sleep for two nights, ignoring the scraps of bread and water laid in front of her by the guards and he tried to pretend that he couldn't hear the boy from District 2 begging the guard to get him out, or the sickening crunch that followed his request, or the whimpers of the outer district children who he had no sympathy for, because their families had started this war and then lost and put them here.

Peridot had awoken on his third day of captivity only to be blindfolded, and dragged by the scruff of the neck out of the damp, cavernous gloom and into sunlight.

His vision was restored to him.

He was in a circular, open-topped building made of shining stone that shone and twinkled in the sun. Masses of people watched him and the others, muttering and pointing and some of them shouting. One let out a whistle and Peridot turned away, looking straight ahead.

At the weapons.

President Tide and the audience surrounded them with excited, feverish, surgically enhanced faces and the leader of their country made a speech about justice and honour and strength and Peridot didn't care, all he knew was that he hadn't begged and eaten out of bins and willed himself to live and fucked half of District 1 just to die here like a dog.

It struck him out of a nowhere, like a slap in the face. Peridot knew the guards and the envoys hadn't been joking, and he knew what he had to do.

Only one other person had the same idea as Peridot. The boy from District 4 dove for the supplies and together they cut down the other tributes who had refused to kill, or were simply too afraid, and in the end the fisher boy and the war orphan faced each other.

They didn't speak.

District 4 lunged with a sword, Peridot threw a spear.

After nineteen minutes and fourty-four seconds, The First Annual Hunger Games was done.

The bodies were checked, the trumpets blared, and Peridot was declared a victor and then led off the field where he proceeded to puke his guts out and then attempt to do a runner. He was caught, restrained, and put under sedation.

Now that he thinks about, he's probably in trouble for his escape attempt.

"Is it because I tried to run away?" he whispers.

The President laughs. "No, though I would not encourage it in the future. They might shoot you next time instead of tackling you. You are not in trouble, Mr. Strauss, I'm just here to explain to you your rewards and responsibilities as a victor.

You will receive a designated fee into a specialized bank account. It will be monitored, so spend it cautiously and sensibly. You will live in a house allocated to you in The Victor's Village when you return to District 1 – your former envoy will escort you there – and you will return to the Capitol to mentor all future District 1 tributes and prepare them fully for The Hunger Games. You will be on your best behaviour while in the Capitol and at home, I trust, and represent District 1 well," Tide tells him.

Peridot tries to process the information. Money? An entire village to himself? _Mentoring_?

"You say future tributes? You mean there will be more of these Hunger Games?" he asks, aghast.

"Oh yes," says Tide plainly. "You're the first of what we're hoping will be many victors."

"But –"

"Thank you, Mr. Strauss. That will be all."

Their meeting is concluded, Peridot is guided out of the President's mansion and onto the streets of the Capitol and he sees bizarre paintings on skin and ludicrous hairstyles and yet people notice _him_, asking for his autograph and begging him to recreate the moment where he speared the boy from District 4. He looks at them and remembers the President's words.

_Be on your best behaviour. _

And before he knows it Peridot is posing for photos and making conversation and he even has several dates for the next time he's in the Capitol.

He's in a bit of a daydream, thinking maybe being a victor isn't so bad, until that night when the children he killed chase him through his sleep.

They chase him until the day he dies, and he never outruns them.

As the years go on Peridot does his best to maintain some sense of normality – he tries to settle down and start a family with his beautiful wife. But even then, the Hunger Games haunt him and he's a mentor and he has kids to try and save, so he flirts and caresses and sometimes cheats so another kid doesn't have to die and his wife says she knows he's been sleeping around and she leaves him to barter with the other murderers Panem calls victors.

He's renowned, famous, a model of what a victor should be because _he _was the first and _he _started it all.

By the time the First Quarter Quell rolls around, Peridot doesn't mentor anymore because his fellows are disgusted with him and his name is taken out of the mentor ballot box they have in the Victors Village. They're disgusted that he signed an agreement with Tide allowing the soliciting of victors as prostitutes and sex slaves, but what they don't know is that he was saving all of them, all of the Ones and the Twos from utter hell in the arena. It was a tough call, but it was all for the best.

_It was all for the best._

Peridot Strauss, who killed thirteen people when he won The First Annual Hunger Games, tells himself this every night before he goes to sleep.


	3. Brick

District 2 is a staple of The Hunger Games tradition – their tributes are renowned for their ruthless and vicious behaviour, their extreme fitness, innate talent with weaponry and their sheer drive and unflinching focus when it comes to winning. They take great pride in their volunteers – that is, tributes – who step forward almost every year. In District 2, power is paramount and all of their victors exemplify just that – power.

All, that is, except one.

Yes, it is likely that if you went around the entirety of District 2, from the Stone City with its markets and shops and taverns all the way to the outer villages and cottages where they recruit those who work in the quarries, they'll ignore their first victor because he shamed them. He displayed no superior or notable strength, no obvious will to succeed, none of the qualities that make a fine tribute… and that cannot be forgiven.

His name was Brick Fergus and he was sixteen years old.

As he was so ignored by his community, not very much is known about him. His real name wasn't Brick and that much is for certain – it was a nickname given to him by his brothers, who teased him for lacking their muscle, brawn and height. He wasn't entirely unattractive, stocky with dark eyes and shaggy chestnut brown hair, but he was a fawn amongst stags, a rock amongst boulders.

He came from a family of upstanding, patriotic Panem citizens who would no sooner put a toe out of line than be hanged for disobedience. They hated the rebels and eccentrics, anyone who didn't constitute as the norm – though this didn't stretch as far as their bizarre government, it seemed. That they could look past, and Brick thought this often but never spoke a word.

As a matter of fact, Brick spoke few words. He was a quiet young man, painfully shy and a sufferer of an acute form of social anxiety. When the reaping came for the second time, and the Fergus family travelled from their small home in the mountains to the Stone City to hear the names (as was now the protocol – they had been informed of this change at the end of the previous summer), Brick's name was called and he was instantly petrified.

He wasn't scared of the Games, or anything that lay ahead of him, but of the cameras perched around him and the crowd, staring at him with judging, stabbing, piercing eyes and the woman he shared the stage with who asked him to say something in that sickly sweet voice of hers and he had to think, he couldn't _breathe_, he was going to be sick he was sure of it.

His eyes darted around, looking for an escape route, and he heard his mother screaming that she wanted to say goodbye.

"Brick. My name… is Brick." His voice was trembling.

The girl standing beside him gave him a perplexed look. She had refused to answer the Capitol woman and Brick knew why. She was called Brynn, and she was a DeValero, and during the Dark Days they had been one of the most prominent rebel families in all of Two. She was almost certainly going to her death and she knew it. If she could spit poison into the Capitolite's face right then she surely would have.

As he was led away into the newly built Justice Building, Brick keeled over and began to hyperventilate. There had been hundreds, no _thousands_ of people out there and so many faces, so many eyes, looking and thinking of him and he couldn't stand it.

His mother got her wish to say goodbye, and she burst through the doors with a Peacekeeper restraining her and the Capitol figured it wasn't outlandish enough to deny the other districts an official farewell for the dead in waiting.

The goodbyes became tradition.

In the Capitol, the tributes were put in cleaner cells than those from the year before, but only because they didn't want half of the tributes passing out or vomiting as they had during the First. No, that would be terrible and not entertaining in the slightest.

The boy and girl from 1 were led away by Peridot, the victor from the year before, who barely afforded the rest of them a glance and seemed to lavish all his attention on the strapping young man and not the snivelling, needy girl who begged for his advice.

Brynn made retching noises. Brick couldn't help but to agree with her sentiments.

The arena that year was the same as the one before. Only this time, when President Tide told them to fight, there was no hesitation. The tributes sprinted towards the weapons and the battle was on.

The pair from District 1 was the first to go down, the boy overwhelmed and gored and the girl gutted as she tried to crawl away. She died asking the audience for their help and almost all turned away, unimpressed with how unsightly she was and frustrated that she didn't realize that she _should _be fighting. One person threw down a napkin with which she was to wipe her hands clean of her own blood.

It was much messier than the year before, and Brick had taken off as soon as the others, darting in between the fights and ducking swords and even clumsily dodging a spear.

Brynn died holding her ground, her arms folded.

The girl from District 4 ran her through with a pike and that was it, but the distraction allowed Brick to pick up the last bounty of the pile, the one everyone else had ignored: it was a lone shield and he held it to him, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

The girl from District 4 approached and swung her pike, only for it to meet the cold steel of Brick's shield.

"Just… fight… fair!" she screamed, frustrated, thrusting her weapon and trying to score a lethal blow, but Brick just danced and twisted around her. She was pouring sweat and was tired and unprepared for the arrow that pierced her neck.

Brick looked across to see the boy grin. He was the only one left, lanky and terribly thin, with large teeth and beady eyes. He and Brick had had similar ideas – defensive strategies that required minimal conflict. In the eyes of this other boy, his final opponent was from District 2, the short, sheepish runt who barely spoke. No problem.

But Brick wasn't dumb, and he knew that his enemy had overlooked his ammo to a stupid, fatal extent.

The boy from District 9 reached back to send an arrow flying but his fingers met thin air.

A moment later Brick's shield came crashing into the side of his face, and when he was down, his skull, over and over again, until the Peacekeepers dragged him away kicking and screaming and covered in blood and brain and bone.

Philomela Tide looked at the thrashing victor, ignoring the trumpets and confetti. She pursed her lips. Brick was no Peridot – quite the opposite, in fact – but he would do.

When Brick returned to his home in the mountains, his family was significantly colder. His brothers didn't make fun of him anymore, but they didn't speak to him much either. His mother often cried over his old photos, as if he had actually died in the Games. His father was stoic as always, and at least nothing had changed there. The people in town were polite but distant, making sure not to get _too _close in case he tried to bash their brains in too.

In the early days of the Games, it was tough to be a victor. Panem wasn't used to children murdering each other yet and Brick learned to cope fast.

He spent a lot of time in the quarry, doing what he always used to do, as if to maintain normality. Perhaps hoping that the person he was before The Hunger Games would suddenly return again, and he suddenly wouldn't be a killer and his family could speak to him without grimacing.

Several years later, when the training academies are set up by newer, more popular victors, Brick receives an invitation out of formality and he writes back in a haze of fury and resentment, his words not able to convey his anger.

He never visits the institution.

Because District 2 thinks Brick Fergus is weak.

He is weak because he is kind and sends a crate of supplies each year under a fake name to Brynn DeValero's family.

He is weak because he stops mentoring once the influx of volunteers and trained murderers step up on stage.

He is weak because he hates the Games, and all they represent, and when he fades into obscurity he couldn't be happier.

Several decades later, an older and greyer Brick Fergus watches the District 2 reaping from his empty house in the Victor's Village. He sees his grand-nephew volunteer for the Games, ride the chariots, talk to Flickerman.

He wins.

As Brick's kin raises his arms in victory and lets out a guttural bellow, nobody in the Capitol or the district mentions their blood relation and Brick is relieved.

He would only bring him shame.


	4. Murray

Persephone Twyblossom is nervous.

She feels her heart beating furiously against her ribcage; her electric pink skin is beginning to break sweat and her hands shake and tremble as if she were far older than her ripe, ambitious age of twenty-three.

She tugs at the coiling dress that wraps around her body to resemble a dragon spitting fire and smoke. It's a signature piece from one of the most renowned fashion houses and she had to wait for it for weeks and weeks.

With great delicacy, she adjusts her graceful, regal, elegant headpiece that sits atop her candyfloss pink hair, irked to find that it won't stop shifting somewhat to the left. The idiot hat-maker obviously didn't make it her size despite repeated phone calls from her assistant that he do it _correctly_. They mustn't have listened to her or heard how stressed she was or understood the importance of the interview she was conducting.

And it is important, so, _so _important for Persephone to not screw this one up. Everyone thinks that she's just an airhead with a trust fund; just the daughter of Cicero Twyblossom, Panem-famous news anchor turned television host and Persephone is his partying daughter who rides on the back of all his success.

But she's landed a gig of her own, and she's worked so hard for it (though her family name didn't hurt either) and she just wants to nail it and for the first time be a credit to herself.

It all boils down to her and the boy opposite her, the goliath teenager who due to his sheer massive build barely fits into the seat reserved for him. When they had met moments before, he towered above Persephone who was in her highest designer heels and she had barely squeaked out a 'hello', intimidated and awed and trying desperately to maintain her professional game face.

Now she sits before him, her working smile plastered on her surgically altered face and her hands folded over her lap. He sits stiffly with an arm each on either side of his chair, staring intently at her as if expecting something, just as unreadable as he was the first time she saw him.

Persephone, her father and a select few of Panem's high society – celebrities, socialites, and politicians – were fortunate enough to see the latest tributes before the actual Games began. It was a lacklustre, predominantly motley crew – half of them under sixteen, the other half unprepared and skittish. The tributes from Districts 1 and 2, who already had victors, were the focus of initial interest but it became soon clear that they were not stars, just desperate children trying to be tougher than they actually were.

Bor-ing.

No, the true cream of the crop was a broad young man who stood before them blank and unreadable. Was he pretending to be dumb or was he simply an idiot? Persephone watched him out of the corner of her eye as she applied her favourite orange lipstick and couldn't help but to be drawn to the silent, bamboozling boy.

Persephone returns to the moment and sees the camera operator give her the ten second warning.

It seems almost torturous and suddenly she hears a voice in her ear telling her she's live.

Persephone turns to the camera.

"Hello _you_," she says, using the show's tagline. It really is awful. "Welcome to Panem Perfect, my name is Persephone Twyblossom and today I'm delighted to be joined by your most recent victor and District 10's first: Murray Carmichael!" She beamed and motioned to the eighteen-year-old, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Murray, you're very welcome. How are you feeling about your fabulous victory?"

The boy grunted back his inaudible response, still clinging to his chair. Well, he wasn't exactly making things _easy_, was he? Persephone bit back the urge to grit her teeth and barrelled on.

"What can you tell us about _you_, Murray? Family? Friends? A girlfriend?" said Persephone suggestively, winking at the camera. The tech team gave her a thumbs up from the sound room.

"Live with my folks. Don't really have many friends, prefer the farm. No girlfriend," said Murray in a deep, gruff voice.

Persephone faltered. Where could she go with this? She thought back to everything her father told her. "So tell me about your parents, they must've been so proud to see you win something as big as The Hunger Games!"

Murray stared at her, an accusing and intense stare and the atmosphere in the room changed. "I don't want to talk about that."

_We are live on air, you mutton-brained oaf._

"Well, that's alright! Let's speak about the Games –"

"Don't want to talk about them either."

"But we must!" exclaimed Persephone, her headpiece jangling.

She was going to _kill _her milliner.

"There's so much we have to discuss – how you joined up with the other boys from District 1 and 2 and 4 out of your own initiative, how you took down the competition together and when your fellow tributes turned on you, how you defeated them single-handedly!" She listed off his achievements like it was her clothes shopping list at Aphrodite's.

"Had to," said Murray in a disgruntled voice.

"And, not to mention, the rumours we've all heard – is it true that you were in a fist fight with Peridot Strauss, victor of The First Annual Hunger Games?" Persephone asked him, her eyes wide.

The District 10 boy was getting angry. "I didn't go near him, he started on me, it wasn't my fault his kid couldn't dodge a sword –"

Persephone cut across him. "And what of the rumours of your personal life? Is it true that you get into similar brawls back home on a regular basis? Is it true that you're actually adopted?"

It was at this point that Murray Carmichael lost his nerve and overturned his chair and leapt across the room to attack.

He didn't care if the woman opposite him was from the Capitol or if she was one of the tributes he had killed, all he knew was that this was getting too personal and he wasn't going there with this random woman and he didn't even agree to this stupid interview in the first place.

Persephone was saved by the security guard that tackled the boy to the ground and she was screaming and wailing and telling everyone she met in the next few days and weeks and months how she was never, ever doing television ever again.

Her father Cicero, who had been watching from behind the cameras, shook his head, led his daughter through the set and back into the main dressing room where a calming draught was waiting for her. Then he returned to the studio, saw Murray still being restrained and called off the guards. Cicero told him to sit down and breathe and he would feel better.

The boy did so.

"Good," Cicero said coolly. "Why so volatile, Murray? We're just trying to figure you out, see more of the person we didn't get to know during the Games."

"You don't know me, and I don't _want _you to know me! That's it, done!" Murray spat.

"That last question really got to you, why is that?" Cicero continued.

"I don't need anyone looking to my business here, you understand? I just want to leave! Let me go!"

Cicero nodded slowly, sympathetically, as if he understood exactly where the poor livestock farmer was coming from. The former news anchor had done his research on the victor and knew exactly what to say.

"I know, I know. Abandoned at birth, rescued by a loving couple who raised you as their own and not even knowing about it until the reaping must have been extremely traumatic. Will you be speaking to your parents when you get back, come to mention it?" asked Cicero.

Murray wiped away his tears of fury. "'Course I will, they're my folks."

"Thank you, Murray. The security team will see you out."

The newest victor left, crouching to make his way through the door and as soon as he was gone the camera operator gave him a single thumbs-up.

"My apologies for that ruckus, ladies and gentlemen, but well worth the tussle I'm sure! As you just saw, my daughter and I were both just speaking to the victor Murray Carmichael of District 10, a transfixing and powerful young man who I'm sure has much to offer our fine society! I look forward to speaking to him, and seeing _you_, later. This is Cicero Twyblossom for Panem Perfect. Goodnight."

The operator gave Cicero two thumbs up and they were officially off air.

As he settled into his comfortable bed with its fine linen sheets that evening, having consoled his daughter over the phone that the interview really hadn't been that bad and she would have more opportunities (and not really believing any of it himself), Cicero rang up the offices of the President and spoke to her secretary and said that he had a mad, wild idea and needed to speak to the President as soon as she had the opportunity please and thank you.

Panem had only gotten one interview from one victor.

They deserved twenty-four interviews from twenty-four _tributes_.

As he fell asleep that night, Cicero Twyblossom couldn't help but smile at his own genius.


	5. Thorne

In three years of Hunger Games, Panem's victors had consisted of a glorified prostitute, a social recluse and a grouch. President Tide had done her best and given them publicists and escorts, made sure they were all presented appropriately and dined at the best restaurants, visited the hottest clubs, rubbed shoulders with the right people.

Pretty soon, the victors were no longer seen as 'former district trash' – they were Capitol property now.

However, she couldn't help but think that a lot had to change, and she had had words with the Supervisor of Hunger Games Management, Mortimun Kane. There were a lot of things that had to be different this year. At social gatherings and speeches and even amongst her friends, people were beginning to comment on how dry and predictable the Games were getting – the children were simply hacking at each other. It seemed so fruitless and blasé now.

It did not bode well.

Tide loved Twyblossom's idea of interviews, she _loved _it. It was perfect, it would smarten up the festivities. And when the interviews were announced, they went down a treat. People were excited, asked were the tributes being dressed up, to which Philomela had improvised, assured them that yes there would be fashion on display and afterwards she made sure that Kane would make sure that it was done.

The tributes were the best bunch so far. District 1 and Peridot had failed to rise to the occasion with a pair of trembling fifteen-year-olds, but the rest made up for the lack of showing by Tide's personal ambassador to the victors. The boys from 2 and 4 were steely and stern, the girl from 8 had a resilient air about her and both from 10 showed promise. Even the young woman from 12 of all places seemed oddly confident despite her gaunt face and thin frame.

Yet as time went on, the district proving itself most invested was District 7. The young woman had a haunting, transcendental beauty, as if she was a character from a novel – perhaps a nymph or a sprite. The boy was handsome, with wavy black hair, emerald eyes and a strong jaw.

One day, in the newly set up Games Management Quarters (or the Game Making Box as some were prone to calling it – Philomela personally disliked the slang), the President eyed them curiously and turned to Kane.

"Mortimun. District 7. Tell me about them." It was an order, not a request.

Kane looked up their information and stats on his computer. "Laurelle Kirk, aged sixteen, and Thorne Fitzpatrick, aged eighteen. The boy is popular amongst the competitive betters but the girl has more solid public support. They're vying for best district this year alongside 10. I tried to get the scoop on the Tens from Murray but no word back yet –" he rambled, his eyelashes twinkling.

Tide blocked him out. She stared deeply into Thorne Fitzpatrick's engaging eyes, so emotive even through a picture. He was a curious young man and for the first time she hoped a tribute did well.

The arena that year had been reconstructed. The dome had been closed and barriers had gone up so as to prevent the audience from interacting with the tributes as intimately as they had in previous years. The battlefield now contained a sparkling lake, a treacherous and foreboding sandpit and a dense, gloomy looking huddle of trees – a miniature forest.

The gong rang, and twenty four tributes leapt into the fray.

President Tide had eyes for one. Thorne Fitzpatrick's long, muscular legs made him the first to reach the pile of weapons left for him and the others. His green eyes lit up as he picked up his axe, did a semi-circle around the bundle of swords and spears and maces and then disappeared into the forest opposite him.

Philomela narrowed her eyes. _What was he doing? _

His district partner, meanwhile, was having trouble. Thorne had had the same plan as her, and now she was left to work by herself with a weapon she wasn't used to. She picked up a sword and swung it at the girl from 6 clumsily, before being cut down from behind by the boy from 4, who turned back to his friends from 2 and 10. They nodded approval and motioned for him to join them.

Half an hour later, it was almost finished. Some tributes had fled to the lake and drowned themselves or each other during juvenile wrestling, or been sucked under the sandpit by fast-moving and powerful quicksand.

Tide was delighted to see some of her suggestions were being implemented.

And after a scramble with the feisty girl from 8, there were only a handful of tributes left.

The burly crew of boys from 2, 4 and 10 faced each other, raised their swords and spears and then faltered. The Capitol crowd cheered and screamed and gasped and watched with bated breath and their hands clung to their grotesque faces.

"Wait," said 2. "The boy from 7. Where is he?"

"Did a runner into the forest," grunted 4 in a deep voice.

They all looked at the gloomy, dark, uninviting stretch of foliage. It was alien to them all, but they believed that no matter what was in there, it meant three on one and they were good odds.

So they scoured the wooded area for almost an hour as the districts watched and the Capitol waited and they grew irksome and bickered amongst themselves, their grip on their weapons tightening as they couldn't find that last fucking tribute that had run away like a coward, and there were comments yelled about District 7 that would rise even the most patient man to fury.

But Thorne knew he was playing a game, and he waited.

And just as the three tributes were in the middle of a screaming match, and the boy from 2 was about to end the other two and wait for 7 to come to him, Thorne swung from the branches with one hand as he held his weapon in the other.

"Hello boys," he said with a grin, and then swung his axe.

District 4's head toppled to the muddy earth. The boy from District 2 only had time to gape before Thorne's blade was buried in his chest and he collapsed to the ground.

The pig farmer from 10, who had gotten into the group simply on the merit of Murray's win the year before, tried to flee for his life and scrambled through the darkness away from his attacker.

But you can't fool someone who has been using axes in the near-dark since they were old enough to walk.

Thorne threw his axe.

He didn't miss.

The trumpets sounded.

Thorne represented a category of victors that is often misunderstood – those who had faced no tragedy or curses in their lives until their names came out of the reaping bowl. Thorne had a good family and a job waiting for him the September after the Fourth Games, but luck was not on his side and he battled through it and came out on the other side. A lot of the other victors could relate to each other, but Thorne was just himself.

He was regular; he insisted he was to anyone who told him otherwise. Admittedly, like Peridot, he enjoyed the fastness and the buzz of the Capitol but unlike the District 1 party boy, he knew his limits and the high quickly wore off. He was back to chugging ale in the taverns of District 7 in no time.

District 7 was almost a Career district. Not many people know that when Thorne was approached by victors from 2 and 4 who told him they wanted to make a super-group that would dominate the Games, Thorne was tempted to say yes.

But he remembered his home.

Thorne was so much like District 7. He was proud and traditional and tireless and stern and he wasn't a cheater. Sevens played fair and on even terms. And he carefully, delicately, politely told his fellow victors that he didn't want anything to do with this supremacist pack.

They shrugged and ended up choosing District 1. Thorne had no regrets.

Because in all his years as a mentor, his tributes may have been scarred and ruined and haunted by what they had done but they were stable because a Fitzpatrick never dabbled in silliness and he let them know exactly what they were getting into. If they wanted to live, they would starve and sweat and bleed and they would kill and that's what they would have to do to survive.

For those that make it out, it keeps them sane.

That is, as sane as a victor can be.

It's hard to deny that without Thorne, there would be no appeal in tributes like Peeta Mellark or Finnick Odair – handsome boys plucked from their homes who become champions. When they replayed Thorne's games during his interview, Thorne watched with no tears and no tantrums.

They showed a working class hero who transformed into a national hero.

Yes, Thorne Fitzpatrick left a legacy, a legacy of blood that would be impossible to wipe away.

When he died in ill health, he had been secluded from society for days. His nurse and matron found him surrounded by dozens and dozens and dozens of sheets of paper, letters of apology to the children he killed and tributes he believed he allowed to be killed under his care.

Many of them are tear-stained, a reminder that Thorne had a heart and that he loved and cried and _cared_.

The letters were buried with him.


	6. Romulus

There were no two ways about it. Romulus Farrow was a sociopath.

At the very least, his moral compass was misconstrued – broken, even – and even before his historic Games, even to be in his presence was hugely intimidating. He had a large skull, a mishmash of uneven teeth and his jet black hair looked like it had been hacked off by a blunt blade in the dark (which, of course, it had). His eyes were cold and dark and they never matched the predator's smile he constantly wore.

So when he stepped forward as a volunteer at the reaping in nothing but a pair of dusty overalls, his muscles bulging and his fists clenched, people began to whisper.

Who is he, they had wondered, and why does he have a death wish? Nobody with any sense signs themselves up for _this_.

The truth was, Romulus loved the Games. He adored them. Even more than that he loved the victors, those incredible humans who went into the arena as boys and left as men, who weren't afraid to do some dirty work and get some blood on their hands if it meant staying alive. That was bravery in its purest, most fundamental, most basic form.

He admired Peridot for starting it all as well as his growing reputation as a heartbreaker, Murray for how utterly uncompromising and cool he was, and Thorne for his combination of brains and charisma.

But he hated, _hated _Brick. And he hated that District 2's only victor was such a weedy, embarrassingly useless sack of shit.

He had won with a shield. A fuckin' _shield. _

No, Romulus was going to show Panem that the quarry district meant business and when his name wasn't called, he took a huge gamble to bring pride back to a place he felt had been slandered and done a great injustice.

After a lot of excitement over the first ever volunteer, Romulus and his district partner were swept into the justice building. The only person who came to see Romulus was the woman who owned the community home in which he lived to tell him she would have to throw away his belongings if he died in the arena.

He just shrugged.

Things could only get better from there – or worse, depending how you looked at it. When Brick came up to the two tributes in his withdrawn, subdued manner to give them advice, Romulus didn't hold back.

"Whatever you're about to say to me, Fergus, you can shove it up your ass. I don't want your help."

He had said it so dismissively, Brick had stared at him long and hard, and then led the girl away to the next carriage to speak to her alone.

In the Capitol, Romulus had been lavished with attention and coverage. He was the favourite to win by a long shot and when Twyblossom asked him what his strategy was going to be, Romulus just smiled that brutal, shark-like smile of his.

He looked down the row of tributes and said: "I'm going to kill you all. Unless you can kill me first, which I doubt you can. But please, by all means, try."

After that, Brick was flooded with calls by people trying to get a meeting with the brutal boy from District 2, asking how they could help him, could they sneak him a knife into the arena, what could they do? Brick led his girl tribute to bed, ignored the sound of her crying as best he could, and tried to figure out a plan.

He went to Mortimun Kane and explained the situation. Kane rolled his eyes and said something about favouritism and equal opportunities in the Games and for the first time in his life, Brick stood up to someone and spoke up.

"I don't give a damn, if the people want to help my tribute, then you – you help him!" he had said in the angriest voice he could muster and stormed out.

It was pathetic, but it was Brick yelling which meant something and he was so sick of kids dying and Mortimun sat down and considered his proposal.

The following day the pedestals rose up into an arena made up of tall, imposing, unnaturally large weeds and at the base of the cornucopia lay a long, rectangular box marked 'D2M'.

Romulus' eyes lit up and he dove into the bloodbath believing that nobody would touch him.

He was right.

Eleven fell at the bloodbath and two more died in the following hours somewhere in the tangled mess of overgrowth. Romulus sat at the Cornucopia with the two-handed sword he had been given by his fans, waving at the crowds and eating out of the bounty pile as he sat on top of the dead body of the boy from District 4.

When the cannons stopped and things became boring, Romulus took it upon himself to finish it. He went out into the arena and began a massacre.

Across Panem, people watched in horror as he manically cut through the girl from 6. They bit their nails as he hunted and tortured the boy from 12, hanging him from one of the weeds that surrounded them.

Five hours in, the nation watched with disgust as Romulus found the mousey pair from 3 cowering in the far corner of the arena. The boy wet himself and wept as the girl looked at the monster before her with wide, fearful eyes that shimmered with tears.

"Please don't hurt us," she begged.

Romulus cut their heads off.

When he returned to the Capitol for his crowning ceremony and the party held in his honour, Peridot clapped him on the back and bought him a drink. Murray and Thorne congratulated him with tight handshakes and thin lips. Brick was nowhere to be seen because he knew had created a monster and he was ashamed.

District 2 welcomed Romulus home like a hero. Unlike their past tributes, he had shown ambition and competition and a clear desire to _live_. He had given them something that they had never experienced before in the Games – respect. District 2 had been admired. Feared, but admired.

And they wanted more.

They didn't care that Romulus was once the biggest bully on the streets of District 2. They overlooked the fact that he beat the women in the brothels he frequented and they didn't bat an eyelid when he got permission to tear down the community home to build his training academy for the Games and they certainly ignored his numerous sadistic tendencies.

Well, nobody likes a stray anyway right?

Indeed, perhaps the only time when Romulus focused away from his bloodlust – to an extent – and showed his softer side was when he mentored for the boys from District 2. He went to the Gamemakers and insisted that the tributes from 2 be trained for the arena, where they flatly refused, and said if his protégées were to be prepared for fighting then the other tributes would as well. It was a tough compromise to reach but Romulus had to settle.

And hey, it was always funny to watch a Twelve try to swing a sword.

He was an intense mentor, but he never gave up on a tribute even at the worst of times. He let Brick handle the girls for quite some time because he didn't believe girls could handle the Games until they actually started winning. It wasn't until Romulus finally stopped thinking about himself less and put his pride aside that he brought a tribute home. He was more mature and while still a legend, there were newer, younger victors stealing the spotlight from him and let's face it, he was old news.

Romulus was one of the original founders of the Careers. He tried to get Thorne in on it but when the man from 7 declined – much to their disappointment – they approached the victors from District 1. They weren't necessarily always the best trained, but that could be helped and there was no denying that the lookers and charmers always, _always _came from the luxury district. _That_ they could use and it was a good back up and it complimented the bloodthirsty Twos and the powerful, emotionally charged Fours.

He never married, nor devoted himself to any one woman or man. Farrow was too in love with the Games, that's what his fellow victors would say. He spent more time in the mentor room than anyone else, even as he grew frail and rickety and his senses began to crumble. He offered advice, even to the lower districts – don't send her crackers now, you won't be able to get her a knife later if she lasts, and I think she might if she doesn't starve to death first.

He always did have an odd, sick sense of humour.

Indeed, it was always the newer generations of victors who got on with him best, seeing him as a fellow murderer taken by the Games and forced to do the Capitol's will like the rest of them.

But the first generation of victors are hardy, unforgiving sorts. It was the Murrays and the Woofs who don't forget. They remember a mean, shark-smiled boy who boasted of murder and ripped children limb from limb and then had the audacity to _revel in it_.

They haven't forgotten where he started, and what lies behind that perfectly straight smile that once used to be so jagged can't be changed.

It's important to remember one very simple thing.

You can't change a monster.

**I'm so sorry for the unexplained hiatus but I've just been so busy with college work and I was away for a long time working and it couldn't be helped I'm afraid! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, Romulus is quite a nasty character to begin with and we haven't seen the last of him! **


	7. Jerome

Jerome McGallagher is sixteen years old and an eternal optimist when he becomes a tribute.

His Mama calls him 'Daffodil' because he always, somehow sees the best in every situation. His siblings and friends call him 'Daffy' – but only ever in jest.

When their father was executed for his participation in the rebellion and they were all weeping uncontrollably, Jerome choked through his tears that at least there would be more room and less snoring now.

As soon as he became the man of the house, Jerome took his job extremely seriously but always with a smile because that's simply who he was.

Even on the reaping stage, he smiles politely. His district partner is a girl called Ria. She's from the slums and she has lank, greasy hair and a sunken face and her lip trembles often. She wrings her hands as she stands on the platform and Jerome thinks she's resigned to her fate already.

But Jerome can't give up.

He has three little sisters and his mother to care for and his aunts run the apothecary that only gets by because he does paid jobs for the Peacekeepers – posting notices of minor importance to places too out of the way, organizing tables for them at the tavern where he also cleans dishes after school, even letting them know about how to get a deal at the butchers.

It's not much, but it makes the difference.

Jerome is the first ever merchant to go to the Capitol. They're bamboozled by him there, how is it that a child from 12 can have such sunny blonde hair and alabaster skin?

On Interview Night, Cicero jokingly asks him if he's related to the pair from One and if looks could kill Jerome would surely be dead before the Games even started.

Indeed, it's a power battle between the more physically appealing tributes that year. At the base of the Cornucopia, like the year before, are two separate boxes for separate owners but this time the boxes are stamped with bold letter saying: 'D1' and 'D12M' and the respective tribute rush to tear them open to see what treasures lie within.

Jerome escapes the bloodbath with a knife and a medical kit and in the following ten hours he kills the boy from District 5 during a scuffle, but not before the other boy breaks his arm. He nurses his injury and recovers while the screams echo in the cavernous arena where the elite watch from above, their twisted faces only visible by the candles that line the smooth stone ledges in an arena that seems all-encompassing – simply a test model for what the Gamemakers have planned for the future.

In the longest Games to date, it comes down to Jerome and the dazzling beauty from District 1. She's no longer the entrancing, giggling vixen from the interviews – her face is drenched in blood and her shoulder is very much dislocated.

She pulls the sword out of her district partner's neck and turns to Jerome, who is in similarly bad shape, his one good hand wrapped up in a crudely-made sling and the other brandishing his only weapon.

Neither of them say anything as they both go for the jugular.

Jerome's knife finds her chest and her sword pierces his stomach and they both fall to the ground, two young people with nothing in common other than their mutual tragedy.

Officials have to check both the bodies because the two of them look very much dead.

There's a cry as the boy is pulled up and rushed to emergency surgery where he spends days and days in the intensive care unit. The victory ceremony is delayed on account of his slow recovery, but he makes it still, much to his displeasure.

The Capitol fan-boys smile to his face and compliment him on how well he used a smooth blend of survival and skill, and it would be interesting to see if anyone else would do it in the future.

The overwhelmed victor shrugs and tells them that the other girl just bled out quicker.

* * *

Jerome is seventeen years old and still hopeful when he meets his tributes for the Seventh Annual Hunger Games.

The girl is from the town, healthy and vibrant, and the boy is brooding and mysterious and from the rough end of District 12, the part they call the Seam. It should be promising, but there's an unsettling feeling in the pit of Jerome's stomach and a chill runs down his spine as he sits down to speak to the new pair.

He figures out that the girl runs track and the boy is brainy, much brainer than he looks, so he encourages them to stick together but to avoid conflict and only fight when necessary. They're a stealth team and they should use that for the Games.

On the first day, Jerome wishes them luck and he shakes their hands with a smile before they go to the catacombs. He watches as the pedestals rise and within an hour they're both of them dead.

Afterwards, Murray leads him out of the mentoring quarters and buys Jerome a drink to ease the pain and loss of his first Games. The victors call it the Casket Cocktail.

Both of them sit in silence for a while. "Is it always so… so…" Jerome stutters.

"Yes."

Jerome looks at the massive man from 10, still horrified.

"I know it ain't no consolation right now, but it gets easier," says Murray.

The blonde boy gapes at the gigantic young man. "They _gutted _her, Murray, they –"

"Just take the drink," says Murray with a sigh.

Jerome does what he's told.

* * *

Jerome is twenty-eight years old when he realizes that District 12 has solidified its reputation as the laughing stock of The Hunger Games.

They almost always die first no matter how hard Jerome tries. He's no Mags, he can't bring his kids to believe that they can live and even more than that, live with _themselves _after what they'll have to do in the Games.

Year after year, it's always the same – two malnourished, dark haired, olive-skinned children show up to die and even when a merchant child comes through there's a flicker of hope that flickers in the pit of Jerome's stomach before the bright and brawny girl or boy is cut down early just in case they're a surprise threat.

Jerome eventually gives up.

He doesn't drink or self-medicate but he is utterly, utterly hopeless.

And in so many ways that's even worse.

* * *

Jerome is sixty years old and a broken man when Haymitch Abernathy wins The Hunger Games, and there is a resounding silence amongst the victors.

The Capitol crowds are screaming themselves hoarse but not a single person says a word.

"Did he – did he just –" stutters the dead girl's mentor, his eyes fixated on her split skull and her one, perfectly blue eye.

Someone lays a hand on the shoulder of the man with terribly pale skin and deep wrinkles and a mess of shaggy blonde hair. He moves as if to rise and then sinks before standing upright and looking around airily.

"Jerome, are you alright?" says an aging victor from 8 worriedly.

"Congratulations, McGallagher, didn't think you had it in you," Romulus says with a smirk.

His fellow Twos chime in half-heartedly and begin to pack up and call it quits on this long, arduous arena. Their tributes hadn't lasted long this year, not even with their training. They were built for stamina and battle, not a toxic paradise with volcanic eruptions and carnivorous squirrels.

Jerome nods in their direction, silent and defeated even in victory.

He watches the dark, moody Seam boy who was the most difficult tribute he ever had be lifted out of the arena, his eyes fluttering in half-consciousness.

Jerome leaves the room where they all gather during the Games to mentor and he isn't followed because they're assuming he's going to meet his tribute.

No, his _Victor_.

He isn't.

Instead, he goes to the Training Centre through the throngs of people congratulating him and clapping him on the back and he gives them half-smiles and tired waves as he climbs the stairs to his room.

Jerome grabs some paper and a pen and writes a note to Haymitch.

He hears footsteps and panicked voices, running and calling up the stairs after him, and he knows his time is limited.

As he goes to the window ledge and looks across the city with its bright lights and majestic landscape, Jerome thinks of who he used to be.

A boy who beamed through his tears and who was so happy to draw with chalk on cobblestones and who used to count every colour of the candy in the sweet shop and he wishes so, so much it had never gone so wrong.

But he had brought one home. He had saved someone.

He closes his eyes, smiles, and leaps.

The Peacekeepers break into his room and see the window open.

Immediately they rush over to the ledge and instinctively look down.

They see the body of an old, tired victor lying spread-eagled across the pavement. The group of men exchange significant looks.

A single voice speaks for all.

"Snow is going to be pissed."

* * *

Jerome McGallagher is long dead when Haymitch finally reads his suicide note.

He can't help himself because for years it's just _been_ _there_, crisp and smooth and dying to be read.

Haymitch reaches for it with curious hands and his eyes scan down it, reading the loopy, flowery handwriting of his old mentor, his eyes narrowing the more he reads.

In it, Jerome tells him that he was a terrible tribute but a good kid and he was sorry but he could finally die now that there was someone else to take care of the tributes from District 12.

Through quite elaborate wording, his old mentor makes it clear that he is perfectly aware that Haymitch would think him a coward, and in many ways he thought it himself, but perhaps he would understand one day just how painful it is to be a survivor.

Then he wishes him luck.

Haymitch rips the letter up.

After this, he proceeds to drink so much that he can't feel his anything and fuck it, he doesn't care if the Reaping for the Seventy-Fourth is this afternoon. Those two kids are going to die anyway so what's the point?

Perhaps the liquor might make Effie Trinket more tolerable.

Perhaps.


	8. Noden

_A willowy girl with large eyes and flowing black hair stared at Noden, her eyes accusing as a blossom of scarlet oozed from her stomach. _

_She spoke but made no sound. Drops of crimson flowed freely from her mouth and nose. _

_Before long she was standing in a pool of her own blood. She reached out to him. _

_But there was no sound emerging from her lips, and Noden was screaming at her, telling her that he couldn't hear a word and he wanted to help but he didn't know how and what did he have to do? _

_Then the ground beneath Noden shattered and he fell a thousand miles through dust and fire into the arena, stifling and insufferably hot, and the flames licked at his skin and shadows danced around him and crept up and off the walls and laughed at him, poked at him. _

_And then the shadows became the faces of the other tributes and they began to solidify through the darkness, rotting and scornful and soon they were pulling him back, suffocating and binding even as he begged them to stop. _

_But their grip was too strong and he was in hell and – _

Noden woke with a start. He was covered in sweat.

He looked across the room, saw his reflection in an intricately hand-crafted mirror and bit his lip in discomfort.

The scar was still there. It was no longer infected and inflamed but it was there, raw and faded red and running all the way from his temple to just below his cheekbone, an unsightly reminder of just how far people will go to stay alive.

It was his souvenir from the Capitol.

Yet even with it, the recently-turned-nineteen-year old wasn't unattractive by any stretch of the imagination. He was deeply tanned from days in the bright sun, with bright blue eyes and a killer smile. He just happened to have a little bit of damage left over from his time in the arena and not even the best surgeons in Panem could do very much about that.

Noden slipped out of bed and went as quietly as he could down the stairs in an effort to not wake up Da and Nuala.

Making his way down the polished oak stairwell, Noden couldn't help but admire the beauty of his large house in the Victor's Village. It was grand and spacious, with fine decorations and furniture. It never ran short of food, the water was always warm and even on the coldest day in winter it was nice and toasty inside.

Noden was the first to occupy any of them, the first from District 4, and while things were lonely… well, at least he had his family and the good-humoured Avox there with him to keep him company.

Sort of.

The young man moved into the kitchen and over to the sink, ran the tap and splashed his face with cold water. As was usual nowadays, he browsed through the various cabinets in the kitchen – more out of boredom than anything.

They were filled with beautifully crafted ceramic bowls and plates, cooking equipment and ingredients for luxurious desserts.

Their old seaside shack didn't even have a cupboard.

Noden looked at an assortment of knives and the memories came flooding back furiously, too sudden and too vivid.

_There was a glint of steel as two tall, fierce young men circled each other. One was a handsome, well-spoken fisherman's son and the other a dark, unreadable behemoth. _

_The larger boy moved first and swung his knife. The fisher-boy dodged but his momentum carried him over, and he had to move again as his last opponent's blade came down a second time. _

_He avoided a fatal blow, but the metal caught his face and he was choking on his own blood and he was screaming, his hands clutching his face as blood seeped through his fingers. _

_The other boy grinned._

"Having nightmares again?" called a voice from the doorway.

Noden instinctively picked up a knife and threw it. It was a clumsy, wasteful throw, based more on reflex than skill, and the blade hit the kitchen wall before clattering to the ground.

His sister Nuala scrutinised him for a moment. She was like him in some ways – the same tanned skin, similarly untamed hair, and she had toned muscles from years of labour.

"Oh hi post-traumatic stress, didn't see you there," she said wryly. Then she sobered and folded her arms. "You want to talk?"

The young victor shook his head.

"Bullshit. What's up?"

"Well, I…" Noden lay back against the kitchen counter. "I had another nightmare."

"Okay. What about?"

_The boy tried to suffocate Noden in a headlock with one arm and stab him with his free hand but a Noden high on adrenaline managed to flip him over with his shoulder, still half-blind from his own blood._

_While the other boy tried to catch his breath and get back on his feet Noden grabbed his spear, took aim and threw. It skewered the boy, catching him in the chest, and he collapsed in a heap. _

_His death gurgles mingled with the cheering of the crowds above._

Noden wiped more sweat from his brow and ran a hand through his scruffy hair.

"It was Bev. She died again. Her and the last boy and… and all the others." His voice caught on his next words. "Same as always."

Bev had been his district partner. She had been uncompromising and tough as nails and probably one of the most beautiful girls Noden had ever seen. She had been Noden's confidante and ally and she had died shortly before the final battle, leaving Noden all alone.

He hadn't saved her. He could have but he didn't.

"Shit Denny, you know I'm no good at this comforting thing," said Nuala as she moved across the kitchen.

"I'm not asking for comfort," Noden told her stiffly.

He wasn't lying. They were of the Sloane clan – removed, isolated, charming in their own quiet way but if you were looking for someone to pander to you then you'd better haul ass somewhere else because a Sloane is no good to you.

Noden decides to move the conversation away from the Games. "How's Da?"

"Still sleeping. I checked."

"And you're sure he's not…"

"For the last time, he doesn't hate you. It just takes getting used to. Seeing you do those things, being a tribute…" Nuala paused as she struggled to grasp at what she wanted to say. "It's not easy for you, Denny. I know that. But when Da knows that's not in your nature and you're spearing people in front of the whole country… yeah, it's pretty shit. Not going to lie to you."

Noden looked at his older sister blankly. She was right, he knew, but what she was telling him still felt like being stung by a thousand jellyfish.

He looked at the floor, averting his sister's gaze. "I just want to be able to tell him, you know?"

"Tell me what?" called a voice from the hallway.

Noden looked up.

His father emerged from the darkness, his usually good-natured face utterly stern.

"I thought you were asleep," said Nuala quickly.

"Which makes me a half-decent actor and you inattentive," croaked the head of the Sloane family. He gave his daughter a weak smile. "You need to learn to pay attention, Nuala."

The two siblings exchanged a look that something caught between bemusement and exasperation.

"So," said Bruinan Sloane. "What were you going to tell me?"

Noden looked at his father, a man who seemed so different to the one he knew before his name had come out of the reaping bowl.

A man with a deep belly laugh and who rambled off his life advice without being asked and who ranted incessantly and could never stop his ramblings once they started – but now, he simply made polite conversation and chuckled. He was a watered down version of the person from the year before.

Noden braced himself and spoke.

"I was going to tell you something that's been on my mind," said Noden.

Bruinan cocked his head to the left, intrigued. "Go on."

"Well," said Noden slowly as Nuala bit her nails. "I feel like you've been treating me differently since I won the – since I came home."

His father nodded. "You're right. I have been acting differently. How can you expect me not to, when you've proved how easy it is for you to murder innocent children?"

Noden's blood ran cold and Nuala stood up as if a bolt of electricity had shot through her.

"Da, you can't just –"

"No. I'm being honest. I won't treat you any less, Noden, but when it's my kid has killed other children I gotta admit, it doesn't exactly make any of us beacons of popularity with the town folk, let alone us beachers."

Like many of the districts, District 4 was separated into two clear-cut groups: town-folk and beachers. The townies lived up in the industrial part of 4, near the factories and refineries, and they were generally better off and made more money. They lived in flats and buildings and not shacks or caves. On the downside, they choked on oil and fumes and gas and were treated like shit and generally died a lot sooner.

The beachers were the total opposite. They lived out near the ocean, right near the surf, and relied on the environment and the ocean for their livelihood. They sent the fish and seaweed and pearls into the town-folk to be sold. It was a symbiotic relationship and it worked.

Some bloodlines in the beacher community went further back than others. The Sloanes were one of those ancient families that had been there since before the beginning of the Dark Days.

"He didn't do anything, Da!" exclaimed Nuala. "He didn't choose this!"

"Oh, Noden chose to kill. He was eighteen. He had entered manhood," said their father gruffly.

Nuala was near the verge of tears. "Listen to what you're saying, Da. You're defending _them_!"

"Quiet, Nuala. The Capitol has given me and the district so much, I couldn't possibly thank them or repay them," he said, perfectly aware that they were probably listening.

His father and sister stared at him for a long moment. Nuala let out a stifled sob and then stormed out of the room.

"Da, I understand that you hate what I did," said Noden. "But I don't regret doing it. Because I'm alive, and other people in the district haven't starved or frozen to death because I'm alive. I won't apologize for that."

His father looked at him, and for years after Noden remembers a light leaving his eyes. His Da never looked at him the same again.

"You are not the son I knew."

Bruinan left the room.

And as he stood there alone for hours, Noden watched the sun rise.

It was red and cruel and unforgiving and with it came the start of his new life.


	9. Grainne

The girl from District 1 is a rare, atypical beauty.

She has high cheekbones, long legs and a wiry frame that hints at the promise of curves. She doesn't cry when her name is called at the reaping and she actually _slaps_ Peridot Strauss when he puts his hand on her leg and whispers sweet nothings in her ear.

During her interview she is coy and playful but underneath all of that is a deadly promise.

Her district partner is foolish enough to trust her.

It costs him his life.

* * *

The girl from District 2 is way out of her depth.

She knows that she's at a disadvantage and she can't stand the way Romulus ignores her. She ignores Brick's words and goes to him and he says that he'll give her advice in return for a special favour.

After they're done he pushes her out of the bed and glares down at her with pitiless eyes.

"Don't even bother trying, that's my advice," he tells her before rolling over and falling asleep.

* * *

The girl from District 3 is afraid.

She understands that it's the adrenaline that's making her heart race and her fingers twitch and her feet tremble on the pedestal.

Her brain is buzzing with a million things, a thousand images of her family and friends and she can't help but wonder what would've happened if the odds hadn't been against her.

* * *

The girl from District 4 is determined.

She feels confident and able because they won last year, they can win again. Noden spoke a lot of sense, as melancholy and sombre as he was, and he encouraged both of the tributes to do their best.

And if they did die, he'd make sure they were buried with honour. Their deaths would not be wasted.

But as is standard, she's set upon by the bigger and meaner and most desperate tributes that year.

She takes half of them down before escaping with her unlikely ally.

* * *

The girl from District 5 is a poet.

She can't do very much else. She doesn't know how to shoot a bow or blend into her surroundings or throw a knife or set a snare.

But oh goodness, can she write.

On the night before her Games, she uses up every single roll of parchment in her room in the training centre. She writes dozens and dozens of poems about princesses and dragons and little girls stolen away by bad wizards in white cloaks.

Nobody ever reads them.

* * *

The girl from District 6 worked in a brothel.

Nobody knew she sold herself for money until she became a tribute, and when the word got around that she used to be a whore… well, the boys paid more attention to her.

They were all too busy staring at her body to notice just how good she was with knives.

Oh well. Their mistake.

* * *

The girl from District 7 is already dying.

She wheezes when she speaks to Cicero, a slow rattle, and he compliments her on how well spoken she is and he admires that she chooses her words so carefully.

The truth is she's struggling to breathe.

Her family watches from their cabin back home, seething and resentful and wishing it to be over and when she's finally put out of her misery they simply have to rearrange her funeral.

It was already planned.

* * *

The girl from District 8 is the youngest tribute that year.

She just turned thirteen. She has two older brothers and she works with her Mama in the factories.

Even though it's hard work and she sometimes accidentally pokes herself with needles and she gets a sore back a lot from kneeling over the tables, she finds ways to entertain the other workers during their ten-minute break.

She does handstands and cartwheels and flips like a professional circus performer.

It saves her life during the bloodbath.

* * *

The girl from District 9 is difficult.

She says hardly anything during her interview, sitting there with a sour look on her face and her lips pursed and her legs not even crossed. She grumbles one-word answers at Cicero and concludes the conversation with a rude gesture towards the cameras.

It's a shame, really, because the stylists have made her look beautiful. She was a plain jane sort of pretty, with flowing sandy blonde hair and freckles and a button nose.

Her Capitol-assigned mentor scolds her, tells her she's blown it and she'll never win them over now.

She decides to give them hell anyway. She's got nothing to lose.

* * *

The girl from District 10 is strategic.

She's sweet, endearing and promises to do her best but she is also utterly forgettable.

When the gong rings the next day she's ignored by the other tributes and has escaped from the massacre with a weapon and a backpack full of supplies.

Nobody remembers the nice ones.

* * *

The girl from District 11 is rebellious.

She doesn't say a word to Cicero, or her assigned mentor, or the other tributes – not even her district partner.

Her silence says that she thinks that all of this is wrong and she wants as little to do with it as possible.

As the tributes lunge towards the Cornucopia, she sits down on her pedestal, breathes deeply and thinks of her family as she waits for the end.

* * *

The girl from District 12 is tragic.

Her mother died giving birth to her and her father was killed in a mining accident the week before she was reaped for the Games.

As she stumbles onto the battlefield half-heartedly, she's almost relieved when the boy from District 2 cuts into her with his sword.

She just wants to see her parents again.

* * *

The Eighth Annual Hunger Games saw a clear divide between the girls and the boys, no doubt in part due to the consistent lack of female victories and taunting on behalf of Romulus and Peridot.

As a result, there was a formation of the boys from Districts 2, 4, 7 and 10 that scoured the arena searching for anyone who had escaped the initial bloodshed.

Only this time, they found resistance in two girls who had banded together: the femme fatale from District 4 and the fiery tomboy from District 9.

They met twice over the course of two days, the first time resulting in a peaceful stand-off.

This was met by booing and disdain by the Capitol audience and the next time they met, the boys realized they had underestimated the girls and they lost two of their own – and the audiences watched with eager eyes as the boys fled the scene, craving one last confrontation.

They got it.

On the third and final day, the final four tributes found each other.

The girl from District 4 faced the axe-wielding boy from District 7. She was poised to fight, her lance in hand.

Beside her stood her faithful ally from District 9 and she frowned at the boy from District 2 who watched her with eyes that suggested ill intent.

"Think I'll kill Four first so I can have the blonde to myself," said the quarryman with a lick of his lips.

"In your dreams, jackass," growled the farmer girl, raising her sickle.

The girl from District 4 turned to her ally. "You ready Grainne?"

She nodded.

And then Grainne was covered in bits of brain and bone and blood as the axe flew into her friend's skull.

District 7 rushed forward to reclaim his only weapon but Grainne was too fast for him and she spun around, still half-reeling from shock and her sickle caught him in the throat and he dropped to his knees, spluttering and choking on his own blood.

She turned to District 2.

"Just us, gorgeous," he said.

"Shut up. Let's just get this over with."

The boy grinned. "Have it your way then."

It was a mighty fight that seemed to never end. His longsword met her sickle and neither tribute seemed to tire. She would swing her weapon and he would swerve, he'd attempt to tackle and she would gracefully dodge him as if she'd prepared for this her whole life.

And in many ways, Grainne had. In District 9 she had to learn how to defend herself from the rough old men that lurked on street corners when she walked home late at night whenever she had a late shift at the tavern where she worked, or from the boys in school who would try to corner her behind the sheds after lessons or at lunch break.

And now this boy, who couldn't possibly be that much older than she was, was trying to get her too and Grainne couldn't let him.

She wouldn't.

Grainne thought of all the girls who had died before her, all of the girls who had almost won but failed and it gave her one last burst of inspiration.

She leapt forward with a manic energy, possessed by some animalistic force within her and with it dragged her enemy to the ground. She pinned him down with her legs and he struggled underneath her weight.

"Please! Please don't kill me! My girl back home, she's having a baby! You can't kill me!"

He was crying, begging her for mercy.

"Don't hurt me! I need to go home!"

Grainne didn't hesitate.

"So do I."

Her sickle came down and the boy stopped moving. She tumbled off his body and wept uncontrollably as a voice boomed above her, announcing her as the victor.

The Peacekeepers came out to bring Grainne back and she shot up, her sickle in hand.

"Don't you fucking come near me or I'll kill every last one of you! I mean it!" She motioned to the two dead boys in front of her. "I got them, I'll get you, now back off! _Now_!"

The men in white slowed but didn't stop their approach. Grainne looked up at the faces that looked down at her from the columns above.

"What are you looking at? You're not used to kids killing kids yet? Well tough shit! I did it! Real entertaining, right? Ha-ha-motherfucking-ha! I said _don't touch me_!"

The armed guards were circling Grainne and she was swinging her weapon wildly, not knowing where to strike first, who to begin with, there were so many, at least twenty and she was about to lash out when…

Oh. Shit.

The tranquilizer dart hit the back of her neck and everything was darkness.


	10. Linon

District 1 is the epitome of beauty.

Its town centre is a glorious promenade with smooth beige pavements and shining cobblestones. Its Justice Building is made of marble and colourful stained glass, the people collect their tesserae from a romantically homey and spacious station, even its taverns are staples of architectural mastery that are known throughout Panem.

In District 1 they have every kind of flower you could think of – hyacinths and rhododendrons and daffodils and sunflowers and roses and violets and more – and a fountain where so many newlyweds make their vows and there is a flowing, sparkling river of cerulean that leads all the way to the Capitol they say.

Yet over this haven lies a cloud of separation and unspoken hatred.

A thin, wiry, sleek-haired young man sat outside the train platform, concealed by a perfectly placed pillar as he watched a group of girls walk down the promenade, all of them with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. They were on their way to the tavern where their families would be passing the time watching replays of the Hunger Games.

They were currently on the topic of victors, as was evident by their high trills and venomous swipes.

"I mean, Grainne isn't _ugly_, I _suppose_,but our girl the year Twelve won would've been a _much _better representative for a girl victor, don't you think? She was _stunning_!" said one girl with bouncing ringlets.

Her posse agrees in unison and on cue.

The boy smirked and shook his head. He had met Grainne, and the rough-and-tumble District 9 girl could take all these kids down in a brawl and walk out without a scratch.

"Now, I'm just waiting for a proper good-looking boy to win."

Linon looked up.

"Oh my goodness, Angelica! Thorne is total hotness. And _Noden_? Hello!" chimed one of the girls.

Linon rolled his eyes and fumbled through his pocket, searching for some smokes. He pulled out a cigarette and observed it as a new thought struck him.

He'd only started smoking after the Games. Huh.

Lighting it, he stuck it between his lips and took a drag, observing the gaggle of golden geese with his chocolate-brown eyes.

"Too moody-looking," said Angelica, the girl with the ringlets. "Besides, Perry," – she let out a forced laugh that tried to sound humble – "That is, _Peridot_, told me he's super stuck up. So is the new boy, the murk."

The girls all gasped and one clapped her hand to her mouth, mortified. Another looked around frantically as if to make sure they hadn't been heard.

Linon looked up, closed his eyes, took a deep drag of his cigarette and then exhaled, allowing the smoke to billow up in front of his face.

"Angie, you can't use that word!"

"Why not? It's what he is," said Angelica simply. "A crappy bleach job to hide his roots, awful brown eyes and _those eyebrows_ – girls, all I can say is that Peridot wasn't a little bit happy with his win if what he told _me _was anything to go by. He likes the tributes traditional, beautiful, you know?" She paused. "And _I _heard it was a catastrophe trying to pass him off to the Capitol crowd – he was yelling and screaming when they made his hair blonde again, he barely spoke to anyone at his party. He even refused to have his eye colour changed."

Linon smiled as he flicked ash from his cigarette. Damn right he did.

"I'm still shocked he won."

"Yeah. I thought it would be the boy from District 2. He made the girl from 8 cry at the interviews, remember?"

Linon looked down at where his fist had collided with that boy's cheekbone shortly after.

It was still healing. He remembered.

"Oh my goodness that was hilarious!"

"Totally."

Slowly, their voices faded away as they made their way towards the town. By the sound of them, they would be going to The Pavilion. That was where all the well-off in District 1 lounged about, sipping sparkling lemonade in the shade on sunny days like today. He had tried to sneak in there before on multiple occasions, with his brother Lockeram.

The white-collar men in The Pavilion would howl curses and threats at them, and they'd both be doubled over with laughter as they stumbled away out of the reach of danger. Eventually the screams would subside as they made it to safety in the quieter parts of town, ducking the low-hanging arches and cutting through alleyways to avoid the Peacekeepers.

But Linon still couldn't escape _that _word.

Of all the districts in Panem, idealism and image ensnared the luxury district the most. The lighter your skin, hair and eyes, the better – those who were not born fair-haired resorted to desperate measures to ensure that at the very least, they looked the same as everybody else.

Linon tugged self-consciously at his hair.

He had had spent his entire life being called a murk by those who felt they had the right to humiliate him. Belittlement at school became a ritual. He didn't know if he had coal miner roots that pre-dated the war, but the shining children he was surrounded by all day every day sure made him think that heh ad.

As a result, his sensitive disposition as a child transitioned into a hardened, abrasive teenager and Lockeram (who coincidentally did not share any of Linon's dark features) tried to coerce him to lighten up.

The joke did not go down well.

Physicality and outward appearance was not spoken about but the stigma was there. It loomed over the citizens like a haze, threatening to suffocate the children who had to bear the torment and test the resolve of the parents who were often seen as encouraging their children's flaws.

But not the Corbetts.

"You fight back," his father had told him gruffly. "You kick and scratch and bite and don't let them have a word in edgeways."

His mother rolled her eyes as she folded their clothes neatly. "He has one foot out of school as it is, he doesn't need any more fights." Lottie Corbett's tone was calm and intentional, but her eyes burned with a fierce warning.

Linon didn't heed her.

When the tough kids cornered him after school by the river, he did what his father told him to. Half of them scarpered as the others lay moaning and clutching at themselves and squirming in the dirt. Linon limped home and after a near escape from a hiding by his mother, she tended to his bruises.

The marks of self-defence came and went, always reappearing.

On the day that the Capitol woman with icicles for eyelashes called him for The Hunger Games, he had a not-so-pretty collage of blue-and-purple smudged across his pale skin.

And like Grainne before him, Linon had been famously untameable. He was cracking jokes that reeked of his now-signature dry humour when he should have been learning how to throw a spear. Instead of answering Cicero's questions at the interviews, he deflected and spoke of those who bullied him at school and exposed their most embarrassing secrets to the nation.

"Percy Prendergast. He pissed himself right in his underclothes for a bet – just six coins. Fun fact! Excuse me Cicero, I might not be alive tomorrow, so if I may? Thank you. Now who's next… oh, Onyx Devereaux, this one is _good_..."

He got through nine of them in his three minutes.

During his presentation ceremony with President Tide, the woman had a soft, deadly smile as she placed the crown on his head.

"You're quite the character, Mr. Corbett," she said coolly.

Linon said nothing.

"We'll have to arrange something for you. An outstanding personality deserves an honour of equal measure."

And so their beloved President had sent Linon to the districts. They called it a Victory Tour and Peridot watched his murk tribute suffer with a twisted sort of glee.

Linon was forced to go to the homes and the families of the tributes he had killed or in most cases, allowed to die in front of him. Their families stared at him with accusing looks and questioning eyes.

Why are you here? Why did my baby die?

So _you _could come home?

The painful memories of the Capitol and his home began to resurface.

In District 7 the girl's family refused to see him. Her friends spat at him and chased him to the Justice Building.

Travelling through District 11, they tried to be kind but it was forced and painful and it was just too plain that they were angry and wanted revenge.

While in District 12, a young child asked Linon why he did that to the nice boy who worked in the market?

Linon began to fall apart.

And all the while, the same word burnt like a flame in his mind.

_Murk_.

As he lay against the exquisite, smooth stone of the train station, he heard the footsteps approach and prepared himself for the inevitable shit talk he was about to face.

"Smoking is bad for you, you know," Peridot told him.

Linon rolled his eyes. "So are sexual diseases."

Peridot laughed heartily. "And how would you know of those?"

"Oh, _Perry_. I need only look at you."

Linon threw away his cigarette quite deliberately at his old mentor's perfectly polished shoes. The ash struck them but Peridot Strauss barely flinched.

"I have a feeling you're not happy with me, Linon?" he asked a little too innocently.

"Eat shit, Strauss. You didn't do a thing for either me or Carnelia while we were in that arena. You never thought she could win for a second and you hate my guts. So don't play mentor with me now."

As he went to get another cigarette, Linon realized he was out of his stash. He swore loudly.

"Hey, District 1 has two victors now. Puts us on par with those bloodhounds from Two."

Linon scoffed. "One less kid died in their own filth, how fabulous. Next."

"I want us to work together, Linon," said Peridot in an earnest tone.

As Peridot said this, Linon eyed him curiously. The man seemed genuine enough in his approach, and while he had been a terrible human being in all the time that Linon had known him – and idle gossip such as that which he had just heard was not a credible source in his opinion – Linon couldn't help but want to give him the benefit of the doubt because fuck it, everyone deserved that.

"Fine. But only for the tributes," Linon told him as he slid off of the arched platform and out of his hiding place.

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Peridot cordially.

"Whatever. I'm glad Grainne broke your nose."

The first victor watched his newest protégée walk away with that sullen, duck-like expression of his that drove the Capitol gaga. Quite frankly, he drove Perry nuts. He had been their bad boy, a rebel without a cause – though the little visits to the districts had seemed to quench that. For now.

And despite his tantrums and moody silences and lack of co-operation, Peridot still held one dagger to that kid's throat.

Back home, he had no power.

In District 1, Linon Corbett may be a victor.

But he was still a fuckin' murk.

* * *

**A/N: I struggled with this chapter. I wasn't sure how to correctly convey the mentality of District 1 without it being tired or recycled and to tell you the truth, I'm still not sure if it worked. Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading! We have some familiar faces coming up soon, so keep your eyes peeled. **


	11. Mags

Nicomachus Fowler watches the old footage of The Tenth Annual Hunger Games with a fiery intensity.

He's making his way through the old Games first. He knows people will skip straight to the newer and more exciting chapters – Finnick, Katniss, Odo, Johanna, Sequine, the Sinclairs – but he's going to write this his way.

The images playing on the screen are unusual in that most of the tributes get airtime split evenly between them. It's a strong bunch of tributes – unusually strong. Nick wonders how many fixes were in there.

Over half of the tributes are riled up and ready to go and they make sure that the Capitol public know it.

In contrast, a girl with sculpted cheekbones, wavy black hair and steel blue eyes is comparably cool and composed as she disposes of her enemies. She deftly and confidently takes down a few of the stronger competitors at the bloodbath and then leads a troop of the more able girls through the first expansive arena, a large open plain filled with fruit bushes and small reservoirs, which the Gamemakers operate robotically from a far-off room.

She's a born leader, this girl. She knows how to use her allies' abilities to their utmost potential. The young woman from District 3 is her confidante and advisor, the dark-skinned District 11 girl finds and cooks their food, the rough-and-tumble District 2 girl is their more-than-willing bodyguard.

One thing holds them together: the fisher girl who rules over them with a spear in one hand and a crude, hand-crafted net in the other.

Towards the end of the games, fatigue overcomes the quarry girl and there's a slaughter at the camp from which only the District 4 girl escapes.

That night is a game of cat and mouse between the boy from District 1, with his blonde hair and blue eyes and white smile, and the girl from the fishing district who is as frightening as she is perplexing.

Nicomachus wants to know more about her but he would be scared to speak to her, this tall and imposing beauty. She hadn't said much during her interviews, choosing to be to the point and not affording the audiences much in the way of a smile – an ice princess if ever there was one.

The girl leads District 1 astray with coyness such as the Games had never seen. His foot is caught in a snare and a net falls down on him and his screams are cut short by a spear through his lungs.

His death is barely a struggle.

Golden letters flash across the screen, interweaving with the announcement on the television screen that declares Mags Rutherford from District 4 as the victor of The Tenth Annual Hunger Games.

Nicomachus rushes out of his study with nothing but a pen and notepad.

* * *

The first person to go to is obvious, and always eager to help out a fan. Nicomachus sits opposite Finnick Odair, who is – as always – charming and cheeky and mind-bogglingly good-looking. He's in surprisingly good spirits as he pops a cube of sugar into his mouth and relishes it.

"Mags is legendary, but that goes without saying," says Finnick. "Her win complimented Grainne's an began a new era of the Games. You know, I told her I was getting a tattoo of her on my right buttock in commemoration of her and she almost flayed me alive," the young man says with a hearty laugh.

"She saved my life so many times during my Games. I could never repay her."

Nick asks about her personality. This takes a bit longer.

"That's a bit complicated. Mags is… well, she's reserved and not prone to opening up to people, but she was the best mentor the Games ever saw before she was, er, forced to stop." There's an awkward pause. Mags' stroke was a public debacle and though she wanted to push past her ill health and continue mentoring, she was forced into early retirement due to public pressure.

Finnick continues. "She was honest and forward with all her tributes. She called them her kids."

Nicomachus raises his eyebrows, to which Finnick grins.

"She's funny like that. Calls people her kids but if they try to hug her she slaps them. She's thawing out though. I think it's the old age."

The chapter was forming already in Nic's head – a removed warrior who became a motherly mentor later on in life. It was fantastic. He scribbled away happily.

"Any family left?"

"Don't think so. Mags was an only child. Grew up with her Dad, I think. Only family now is us in the Victor's Village. Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude Mr. Fowler, but I do have another engagement to attend to."

Nicomachus nods. "Of course. I'm about finished here anyway. Thank you Mr. Odair."

Finnick flashes a winning smile, shook Nicomachus' hand and is almost out the door before Nick stops him.

"Mr. Odair! One last question!"

The District 4 victor bows his head. "Of course."

"How do you feel about Mags _potentially_ being your district partner in the upcoming Quarter Quell?"

There's a moment that Nicomachus can't quite explain and Finnick seems wistful and sad but it's gone as soon it came and then the Finnick everybody knows and loves is back again.

"_Potentially_ honoured, Mr. Fowler."

* * *

"I'm sorry sir, but Ms. Cresta is unavailable for interview today. She's… not feeling well. "

A District 4 victor from years past gives him a forced apologetic smile as he ignores the groaning sounds from the second floor of the victor's village.

Nicomachus tries to be understanding. "Yes. Well, please let me know as soon as she's feeling better."

"Absolutely sir."

There is a long, piercing wail from above and it makes Nick feel unwelcome. There's a loud crash from above and a thin, unsettling scraping sound.

This is Nick's cue to leave and he knows it.

* * *

Johanna Mason peers out at Nick from between the door and the doorframe, eyes alight with annoyance.

"What?" Her tone is abrasive and sharp.

"Ms. Mason, I'm a huge fan of yours, my name is Nicomachus Fowler and I'm writing –"

"_What do you want?_"

Nicomachus swallows and regains his composure.

"I want to know about Mags Rutherford, from your perspective. May I come inside?"

"No." Her accusatory expression hasn't changed. "Mags is fine. Nice broad, didn't hold a grudge after I split open her tribute's skull. Bit hard to talk to after the stroke. Anything else?"

It was starting to become obvious that he wasn't going to get very much more from Johanna Mason.

"That's it, thank you."

The door slammed in his face and Nicomachus was starting to think he would never get this damn book done.

* * *

The first tribute that Mags ever saved sits opposite him, her hands shaking and her hair wispy and white. She seems caught between a smile and a grimace and her eyes dart about frantically as if she's looking for the nearest escape route.

"Ms. Roper, can you please tell me about your old mentor," asks Nicomachus.

The aging woman still contains the fragility of her younger self and even has the same air of naivety about her as she answers. She sighs and her words are spoken in something just above a whisper.

"Oh, Mags is wonderful. She really helped me. Lots and lots. She's a great friend. We always have tea and crumpets in the LaCrux Café after the…" She stops suddenly and then after a moment's struggle, continues. "After the Games. She's so funny and witty, she used to say their crumpets were better… better than water and… and crackers…"

Her eyes cloud over and she goes still and frozen and when Nicomachus tries to speak to her further he can only get whimpers and mumbles from the woman.

"Rocks and teeth and blood…"

"Ms. Roper, thank you for your… time," says Nic hurriedly.

"Thank you Mags," she mutters back.

* * *

"I'm getting nowhere Patricia!" huffs Nicomachus as he slams his pen down on their black marble countertop.

"Oh hush, Nicky," his wife snaps back at him. "You have a full notebook on Mags, how can you have _nothing _to write?"

Nicomachus doesn't retort and instead broods silently, resting his chin on his arms as he thinks of what to do.

"Get a different side to the story. Go to the people who _didn't _worship her, maybe? And also we're out of cufflets for the girls, _everyone_ at school is wearing them apparently, could you –"

But Nick is already gone.

* * *

Romulus is elderly, bone-thin and nothing like himself when Nicomachus meets him. He wheezes with laughter as Nicomachus asks for information on one of the most popular victors of all time.

"Myself and Old Maggie weren't on the best of terms, true," he tells him hoarsely. "I always found that on the whole, the girls held back and were more focused on their looks than… than…"

There was a long moment where an Avox had to take the old, worn District 2 victor aside so he could cough up blood. Nicomachus was wondering if the man would even make it to the Reaping at this point.

"Where was I? Oh right… yes, the girls' superficiality was an obstacle to victory. At least in the early days. We differed in opinion, Mags and I. She was always an ambassador for the ladies in the Games and I daresay a few victors – even those not from her own district – owe their lives to her. But…"

Nicomachus looked up, pen poised. "But what?"

"She was stubborn, occasionally mindless. It cost her tributes the Games. It was refreshing to see her lose… the public's princess."

Romulus sneered as blood and spit trickled down his chin.

Nicomachus excuses himself to rush off to a meeting that didn't exist.

* * *

Grainne doesn't answer any of Nicomachus' questions. She and Mags were never on bad terms, but they weren't exactly friends (as rumour has it).

"So, what can you tell me about Mags? Ms. Ellison?"

The first female victor is hunched over and looks at him blankly, her lips cracked and her eyes red-rimmed.

She shakes her head and her nurse gives Nick a glance that tells him all he needs to know. This is the norm. She is no longer the fireball that changed Hunger Game history with a sickle and a spirit that was unbreakable.

As he departs, Nicomachus can't help but feel like there's more to Grainne's silence than meets the eye.

The rest of the Victors are no good. They refuse to speak to Nicomachus out of respect for Mags or simply because they didn't know her well enough.

He feels like giving up until he gets a call in the middle of the night.

The voice is hoarse and croaking and strangely familiar.

"Warehouse 8, the Capitol Docklands. 4AM. You have one hour."

No sooner can Nicomachus process this stunning news than the line goes dead and he's left utterly bewildered in the dark.

* * *

Mags Rutherford, even deprived of speech, is everything Nicomachus ever imagined her to be.

Yes, she's older and worn at the edges and tired but she is also just as she has been on the television screen for as long as Nick can remember. And yet somehow she is still the strong, deadly girl who won The Hunger Games.

The undeterred warrior is weaker but not resilient and in the darkness of an abandoned Capitol warehouse, Mags slowly writes down her story.

It is one of a girl born into a District 4 town family which her mother abandoned and her father kept steady. She grew up a hardened and tough soul and after her Games, after she'd been through the most harrowing and traumatic experience any person in the districts could imagine, she waited for the right opportunity to strike back.

It's in the grimy, stony silence that Nicomachus learns of a rebel plot.

The rebels need people on the inside, people like Nick, writers and editors and scribes whose strength lies in ink and paper.

In one hour, Nicomachus is reformed.

He shakes Mags' frail hand and returns home before his wife knows he's gone.

* * *

**A/N: I redid this chapter so many times. I really hope I didn't let Mags down. So, Nicomachus is back as a rebel recruit, and we got to see some old and new faces! Plus some mysteries, ooh. What is Grainne hiding? Who was the stranger on the phone? Dramatic music, shocked faces, etc. All to be revealed soon!**

**Kiliflower**


	12. Caleb

_Our mentor Gage is a wizened, whiskered old man with eyes that over the years have become more and more milky and clouded. I've noticed the slow transition on the television. _

_I notice things. _

_He's wearing his grimace of disappointment and pity that he always wears, the one that's reserved for the two young children he's been given to guide through the arena. His look of sadness is saved for just that: children – hapless, defenceless, and totally unable to prevent their own demise. _

_We're not that sort. _

_My district partner looks at him with her arms folded. Her name is Aubriana, a flowing and reserved name that doesn't suit her. At eighteen, she's two years older than I am and probably the bossiest and most resolutely stubborn person I've ever encountered. She has short black hair and a pointed, stern face._

"_You still haven't given us any advice," she huffs. _

_Gage mumbles something about dying quickly. _

_Aubriana storms out of the train car, making sure to crash a vase and slam the door on the way out. Our escort lets out a yelp of incredulity and clutches at the many pearls draped around her vividly tattooed neck. _

_The old man turns to me, expecting the same. _

"_I have an idea. Can you please… listen?" _

_He does._

* * *

"Welcome, welcome, one and all, to The Eleventh Annual Hunger Games!"

Cicero Twyblossom beams for his audience, his teeth blindingly white. In honour of the previous year's victor, his hair is cerulean and fixed into bouncing curls. He wears a deep black suit twinkling with diamonds, giving the illusion of the night sky that sparkles with stars high above them.

He cracks a few jokes about the Gamemakers and banters about some of the victors (the close up on Grainne's face when he comments on her freckles will no doubt make the replays in years to come) before calling out this year's crop of tributes.

The pair from 1 are both confident and leggy and ready for action, the girl more so. The young woman from 2 is somewhat unhinged and promises to bring the blood.

When District 3 rolls on up, Cicero expects the usual whimpering, half-sobbing messes that almost always accompanies the technology district. But this time the girl snatches the microphone off of him and her eyes are alive and vivid as he stares at her bemusedly.

"Well, are you going to ask me a question or what?"

The audience laughs and her nostrils flare. Her district partner shakes his head and he looks around nervously as if embarrassed.

The conversation between the two of them is tight and heated but good television. She doesn't answer anything too directly, instead choosing to keep her strategies secretive and always bringing the conversation back to either herself or the other tributes. She leaves by rolling her eyes, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sitting back down in her seat without so much as a thank you.

On the other hand, the boy is quieter and more diminutive but perhaps more interesting. He talks about how he works three jobs: one in his father's repair shop, one sweeping the Justice Building and one in… pest control?

The audience begin to titter as the boy cringes. Cicero quietens the crowd.

"Pests, Caleb? Can you elaborate?"

The tributes from 1 are openly sniggering and the girl from 2 is looking at him like a piece of meat. Caleb's answer is caught on his throat and he looks at Aubriana. She gives him an assertive nod of encouragement.

"Yes. Rats and roaches and things. We catch them and kill them." Caleb pauses. "To keep the streets clean."

Caleb's three minutes are up and the trembling girl from 4, so unlike Mags, stumbles up to replace him.

Everyone forgets about him due to the more interesting tributes, such as the handsome young man from 7, and the articulate and graceful girl from 11 and the young woman from 12 who speaks of her home in such a lovely way that it brings a tear to even Cicero's eye.

Under the lights of the interviewing studio, Caleb is thinking furiously.

* * *

_My fingers work quickly, twisting and wrapping and bending the wire as my supervisor peers over my shoulder. _

_He chuckles and claps me on the back. "You're way too good at this, Flagg. You'd be getting lashings if you weren't saving half the district from disease." _

_I look up at my little traps scattered hither and tither around the street, knowing that inside the shops there are even more. _

"_Yes sir," I say simply. _

_He sighs exasperatedly. "Learn to accept compliments, kid." _

_Looking up at him, I offer a small smile. _

"_Yes sir."_

* * *

The Eleventh Annual Hunger Games were set in a gloomy, rustic and lonely castle with jutting turrets and long, winding corridors. It promised a prolonged experience of stress, paranoia and fear for its inhabitants and that it delivered.

The Cornucopia was less of a stock-supplied metal horn than a bunch of backpacks and weapons littered and strewn about the certain of a grand foyer.

Most of the tributes made the mad dart into the Bloodbath, which claimed eleven lives. This included the resilient young woman from District 3 who was speared through the stomach as she found herself trapped between the two beautiful children from 1.

The boy with golden hair smiled charmingly at his district partner and then let out a short, sharp gasp as his head was freed from his shoulders and thumped to the ground while the girl from 2 jumped up and down on the spot, shrieking fiendishly.

His traitorous district partner threw her eyes up to heaven and took his much sharper sword for herself.

"Never did like him much," she said.

The girl from 2 responded by kicking his decapitated head against the stone castle wall. Her district partner doubled over in laughter as the young lady from the luxury district wrinkled her nose.

"If we're done playing about, can we get back to business please?"

The sixteen-year-old from District 3, who had been left largely unnoticed, crouched behind a suit of armour. His pale white skin was pouring sweat and his jet black hair stuck to his forehead as he clutched a small blue backpack to his chest, making himself as small as possible.

The other two tributes walked straight past him. It was the girl from 2 who stopped and looked directly at where he was hidden, her eyes brimming with curiosity and suspicion. She surged forward until a voice rang from the top of the staircase.

"Terra, come on!" called a gruff male voice.

As the girl growled and stalked away, Caleb felt his mouth fill with blood as he finally stopped biting the inside of his cheek.

Then he got to work.

* * *

"_What if I get picked, Conrad?" I whisper to my older brother. _

_Conrad grunts dismissively at me and I respond by throwing my pillow at him. _

"_Answer me! I'm serious."_

_The oldest of The Fantastic Flagg Brothers whips around, his teeth clenched. With curly black hair and developed muscles from labouring in the factories, he's the more handsome of us, but we all know I'm the clever one. _

"_Are you nuts?! You'll wake Dad," he hisses._

_I lower my voice. "What if they pick me? What do I do?" _

_Our eyes meet. They're identical: dark, cobalt eyes that justify logic and rational thought. My brother gives me a piercing glare._

"_You come home."_

"_But –"_

"_You win. Goodnight."_

* * *

His brother's advice rings in Caleb's ears as he uses up the last of his wire, manipulating it into an awkward shape around the banister at the far end of the main hall of the arena.

Caleb stares down at his now bone-thin arms, his knuckles and veins and ribcage that are more visible than ever. He's been working off the scraps of the other tributes for the past few days. At least it's felt like days. It could be weeks, but who can tell?

Yes, he had been stealing, but carefully, carefully. He thinks he got the boy from 5 killed because he stole some food from those crazy assassin tributes and the little kid from the power district appeared in the sky that night. It was all Caleb's fault.

That's when his hair started to thin – if it was from the hunger or the stress, Caleb doesn't know.

He looked across the hall at his masterpiece, what he had spent the entirety of the Games working on almost completely undisturbed.

It was a miracle he hadn't been caught, though there had been a few close shaves.

Now it was time.

Caleb pulled himself up, a walking skeleton, and struggled over to a large, bulky helmet adorned with golden embellishments. He bent his knees, picked it up and threw it over the side of the banister.

It fell twenty feet to the marble floor below and the impact of the crash resonated throughout the castle. The sound was no doubt amplified by the Gamemakers.

The boy from 3 disappeared into the darkness as the tributes from 1 and 2's voices carried into the foyer.

"We know you're in there, rat!" snarled the quarry boy.

The girl from 1 looked at her nails, looking very much over the whole situation.

It was the young woman from 2 who found him.

"There!"

She pointed to a silhouette crouched on the floor above them and rushed forward, sword in hand.

In her excitement, her foot caught on the low-lying wire and the spiked mace on the wall above her collapsed, swinging down with a brute force that completely decimated her skull. Blood and brains spilled across the sleek, polished ground.

Terra's allies contemplated the sight before them: the twitching body of their former ally stuck to the floor by a large chunk of spiked metal.

The insanity of the situation gave the group a renewed invigoration.

"After him!"

The two tributes tore up the stairs, making sure to look out for any tricks that might be left out for them.

Caleb cut another string and a large bronze shield fell from the wall and rammed into the girl from 1. She gave a shriek of rage and despair and lost her balance, tumbling over the banister. The sickening crunch below was confirmation of her fate.

Two cannons boomed and the boy from 2 backed away from the young man with a knife and a brain and a devilish, insane glint in his eye. He moved back down the stairs and into the foyer and Caleb, high on power, followed him.

"You're smart, kid," said 2 with a smile.

Caleb didn't smile back.

"Smarter than you."

He cut the final string.

The steel chandelier, crude and twisted and glowing with a hundred candles, came crashing down and the quarry boy didn't even have time to look up before the weight of it crushed his bones and broke his body and tore him into pieces.

Blood mixed with metal and Caleb dropped to his knees.

The final cannon boomed and the trumpets sounded.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the Victor of The Eleventh Annual Hunger Games, and District 3's first – Caleb Flagg!"

* * *

"You're a very bright young man," said President Tide from across her desk.

Caleb looked at the woman sheepishly. "Thank you Madam President."

"I must say, the way in which you won caused quite a stir in the Capitol. No direct confrontations, lots of planning. You left even our Gamemakers quite befuddled."

The President stood and went to the window.

"But I appreciate intellect and I understand that ingenuity needs to be harboured and encouraged. Your sneaky, underhanded antics were only restricted to the arena, isn't that right Mr. Flagg?"

Caleb wasn't sure where the President was going with this.

"Yes," he said. "Madam President," he added quickly.

"Don't think for a second that we don't know about tricks and traps here in the Capitol, Mr. Flagg. We suffered them during the war and we will not suffer them again, do you understand? The arena is the arena and our country is our country. Two separate things, both equally important and occasionally collaborative, but separate. _Do you understand?_"

Caleb nodded. He was afraid by the tone the President was taking with him.

"The Games are to be played, but if I catch you making any more… traps as a Victor, there will be consequences, as your fellows Ms. Ellison and Mr. Carmichael will attest to. Good day."

Caleb thanked the President and is escorted to his hotel by Peacekeepers.

* * *

All through his life Caleb tries to escape traps and games but he can't.

His existence is just that – one big snare, a net that he isn't able to pry loose from, a cage that's been dropped on him suddenly and deftly and there's a fire outside and everyone else is watching him burn.

Caleb Flagg wishes he could cut another cord and then it would all be over.

But he can't.

He can only watch as others get caught in the trap he has made.


	13. Marcus

It was raining on the day that his life changed forever.

Yes, he remembers. It was summer but the water poured from the heavens without apology and drenched his threadbare clothes and dampened his hand-me-down shoes. Thunder and clouds rolled over the mountains angrily and unapologetically.

The boy looked at them in amazement.

He was one of the more spiritual ones, and it made him a target for consternation and mockery, considering he came from a place that was so resolute in its belief in self-productivity. He firmly believed in nature, in the power of the mountains and the sky and whatever spirit lay in the earth beneath his feet. Everybody made fun of him for it – it wasn't necessarily malicious, but hearing him talk about the mountains as if they contained souls… well, he was often told that he was acting like one of those religious nuts from 10.

In time, he learned to keep his mouth shut and began to worship the mountains from afar.

One afternoon the ground shook and the walls of the huts quivered and whole entire building crumbled to the ground before the boy and he stood stock still, staring with wide open eyes. Cracks in the dry, dusty path beneath him had appeared and further down the street opened up, swallowing it and dragging dozens to their doom.

For the others, their cries for help began to drift out from beneath the rubble.

The earth wanted retribution for their scorn and the boy believed they had got their just desserts.

After the tremors had stopped and the people who wanted to help began to rush in, with tear-soaked faces and arms outstretched, the boy wandered in the opposite direction with nowhere to go. His family had died in the war that he could barely remember: a vague, smoky memory of crashing noises and screams and arms wrapped around him, whispering something.

What had it been?

His name. What was it?

He couldn't remember.

The boy's feet crunched over the pebbles and tarmacadam as the rain poured down. His clothes and hair stuck to his skin, his fists were clenched and the wails of pain and horror intensified in the distance.

He stared dead ahead and tried desperately to feel sorry for them.

He couldn't.

The mountains had gotten their justice.

"What in the name of Panem just happened?" a deep yet jovial voice called out to him.

The boy looked up.

The man with soulless eyes and the smile of a madman was clutching a knife and walking in the direction of town.

"It's the mountains. They answered those who questioned them," said the boy simply. He went to move on.

The older of them blocked his way, baffled and entertained. "Hey kid, I know all sorts, but you sound a little bit off your rocker. Are there people hurt?"

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "And you're not going to help them?"

Marcus shook his head.

The older man wrapped an arm around the younger's shoulder.

"Come with me."

* * *

Romulus watched intently the boy who spoke in such a peculiar fashion. He chose to ignore the lavish meal of potatoes and vegetables laid out in front of him in order to spend more time staring out the window at the view of the rocky hills that surrounded the Victor's Village.

"You're not gonna eat?" Romulus asked him.

He shook his head.

"You know, there are a thousand kids down at the Community Home who would kill for half that plate of food, and I would know," Romulus told him.

The boy looked at him blankly.

"Bring it to them, then."

Romulus stood up and moved across to the window and pulled the curtains, effectively blocking the view. The young boy made an irritable, guttural sound and Romulus grinned.

"Nice to finally have your attention. What's your name, kid?"

The boy shrugged.

"Come on. You have to have a _name_."

The boy looked embarrassed. "I don't remember."

Romulus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well, today's your lucky day. Your name is Marcus now." There was a brief pause. "It was my father's name."

The boy looked at Romulus oddly. "Was he a good man?"

A deep laugh erupted from the victor. "No, he was a piece of shit I barely knew. He died in the quarries. Only ever knew his name from my Ma before she died, not that she was much better.

It's up to you to reclaim it. I have a feeling that you can."

Marcus cocked his head.

"Why?"

Romulus rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to feed your ego. Just prove to me that you're worth something."

Marcus felt suddenly invigorated and he found the strength of the mountains in his bones and his soul as he asked his next question.

"How?"

Romulus smiled his cruel, cruel smile as the rain continued to fall.

* * *

It was overcast on the day that they called the names.

The girl was young and a waif of a thing: a quarryman's daughter who shook at the knees and pulled at her pretty braids and spoke with a tremble. The boy was similar – older, but spotty and still in the throes of puberty, his voice cracking as he turned a pale shade of green.

A voice called out from the audience.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The crowd swivelled. Nobody had volunteered since Romulus and they all craned their necks to get a look at the boy who had just signed himself up for the unthinkable.

He was dressed flatteringly, in pants that emphasized his muscular legs and an open-buttoned white shirt that teased at chest hair. With unruly dark brown hair, a hint of stubble and dark brown eyes, he seemed almost too good to be true.

The escort was in hysterics, delirious with excitement as she threw an arm around the young man as he marched onto the stage.

"How exciting, how _exciting_! What's your name, darling?" she trilled. "Go, boy," she hissed at the former tribute, who let out a dry sob and darted from the stage and into the arms of his mother.

The young man looked behind him, his eyes sweeping past the infamous recluse and straight to the savage, beastly man who had been the closest thing he had ever had to a father.

"Marcus," he told them.

The crowd all looked up at him in pride and awe.

"My name is Marcus."

* * *

The goodbyes were a part of the Games formula now, a chance for the hopeless cases to bid a fond farewell to their loved ones and an opportunity for the fighters to muster their courage or let out a few tears before the real work began.

No sooner had Marcus taken a seat than Romulus burst into the room. He didn't even bother to close the door behind him.

He took Marcus' face in his hands, his dark eyes simmering.

"You listen up, and you listen good, because I don't do well with being interrupted," said Romulus pointedly. "From here on out, it is work. It will not be easy. You will fight and you will kill. Some people will love you, and some people will hate you. But you will get through it. I'll back you up."

Marcus shook off his mentor and lowered his voice to a whisper. "We've been through this already. I can handle it, I'm prepared."

Romulus let out a frustrated growl. "This is not a test for school, or one of your damned mountain epiphanies! This is real life, these are the _Games_."

"I know," said Marcus. He was sounding somewhat bored.

"Oh, you're over it. Fucking great. Well, I hope you feel a little bit more inspired in the arena."

"Why are you so agitated?" Marcus inquired calmly.

"Because I am a mentor, and it's my job to get you through and out of that arena _alive_." He hesitated. "And also because Brick's mentoring record is better than mine which is something I can't stand, but that aside, I want you to make it back. And I'm not getting any mushier than that, you hear me?"

Marcus grinned. "I hear you."

"Good. Now come on, we have work to do."

They left for the train together.

* * *

"Of all the arenas, they gave you _mountains_. You are one lucky son of a bitch," said Romulus as he poured himself a glass of wine.

"Where's Brick?" Marcus asked softly.

Romulus snorted. "Not invited. Consider this a 'Valid Victors' RSVP. Wine?"

There was no answer.

Marcus was transfixed with the television. The editors had spliced the screen in three with multiple scenes playing at once: he was watching himself drive the boy from 9 over a harrowingly steep precipice, while also stabbing the girl from 4 in the back and oh, there he was swiftly dodging the landslide that the Gamemakers had tried to kill him with.

"Do you think they were scared? Before they died?"

Romulus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't expect the guilt to come this soon. He turned off the television and sat opposite his tribute – his victor.

"I can't tell you. I can tell you what's important."

Marcus looked at him expectantly.

"They're dead and you are alive. You've come so far, Marcus. You came to me as a street rat with nothing – no home, no money, no name. You worshipped the mountains. Now you're a _victor_. Accept it. Revel in it. Go crazy, have a few drinks, get a few girls. You won the Games, you won't have to lift a finger."

Romulus downed his wine.

"Who said I stopped worshipping the mountains," muttered Marcus.

"You know why I picked you for this? I picked you because you're a survivor. You had proved that you're capable of not showing any mercy, you didn't get emotional, you were sensible, and you didn't completely annoy me with your mountain talk."

He took another swig of wine.

"In a way, it was charming. But now you've won, that's really got to stop. You're a winner, so you better start acting like it." The alcohol was starting to go to Romulus' head a little and he sat down opposite Marcus.

"I don't feel like I won much, except a few scars and a stupid crown," Marcus retorted.

Romulus' fist came crashing down through the glass table, smashing it to pieces. The Avox in the corner jumped and looked unsure of what to do, but rushed off to find something to clean up with.

"You dare – how can you –" Romulus spluttered, incensed.

He breathed deeply and then exhaled, calming himself, before forcing a very deliberate smile at his tribute. "Go to your room like a good boy before I do or say something I regret."

Marcus left.

* * *

That night, Marcus looked out at the Capitol with its towering skylines. Its neon lights burned beautifully and colourfully and the crowds chanting his name below sang with an enthusiasm that he wished he could bring himself to feel.

He brought his knees to his chest and threw his silk bedsheets over himself, wishing he could just be back at home, where the air was clean and the people familiar and all he had was his name.

Romulus had told him that if he won the Games, things would get better.

In reality, Marcus went into the Games with nothing to lose and hoping that if he came out, he would know just a little bit more about himself.

Now he did.

He knew that he could watch the life drain from a fifteen year old girl as she kicked and squirmed and her skin slowly turned blue.

He knew that he could stay awake for nights on end and still be ready for someone creeping up behind him with a knife.

He knew that even when he was surrounded by a thousand people shaking his hand and kissing him and hugging him, he could feel lonely to the point of madness.

What Marcus didn't know, and what Romulus neglected to tell him, was that he would still be jumping at sudden noises, or seeing traces of the arena in the simple patterns of his every day, or waking up in the dark of the night. He still finds his hands instinctively throttling his bedframe like it was the neck of his final enemy.

Marcus can't look at the mountains.

He can't see himself in them, not anymore.

Every time it rains or the thunder sounds or there's a rumble in the distance, he can't help but think the mountains are punishing him too.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter because I enjoyed writing it. I like to think of Marcus as Romulus with a conscience, a choice. If any of you are still reading or following along with the entire story, I want to take this opportunity to thank you so, so much. You're the best. Seriously. Next chapter soon!**

**Kiliflower **


	14. Woof

**A/N: This chapter gets a little dark, but this is a dark series about kids killing kids so I think we can manage to pull through hopefully. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

The memory was muddy and distant through childish tears but Woof still remembers his father's face.

It was thin, stripped of its former handsomeness, and now bore a smile that the grim put on for the hopeful. Woof clutched his teddy bear to him, breathing in how clean it was and feeling its fuzzy warm coat against his skin. He was trying desperately to ignore how horrible his daddy smelled.

His mother stood behind him, stoic, her eyes fixed on the men with the guns. One of them winked and she whimpered, her hand digging into Woof's shoulder. He bit his lip because it hurt a little but didn't let go.

"You listen here son," his father said to him. His voice was shaking. "I did some bad things so these fellas are taking me away, but while I'm gone you take care of your Mama and be good and don't get into trouble. Alright?"

The little boy's eyes widened and he pulled his teddy bear closer.

"Where...where are you going?"

His father stroked his beard thoughtfully and bowed his head for a while before answering. He used to be so strong, and now Woof could count his bones. His arms were like the matchsticks they used to light the fires in their small apartment.

"I can't tell you that, Woofy. I haven't the heart or the right."

One, two, three, three ribs, that was definitely right, Woof thought furiously as he clung to his teddy even tighter, digging his fingernails in.

"Be good, be tough and don't be afraid. Take care of your Mama, she'll need it."

Woof's mother rubbed her swollen belly and let out a dry sob.

"No!" cried the little boy.

The men lifted his father up and threw a bag over his head and threw him into a truck with the other men who had been accused of treason. Tailors and labourers mostly but there were also some fancy folk – the Justice Hall librarian and the Mayor's son was in there. The truck was big and dark and far too eerie in appearance for Woof's taste.

The doors shut and they were all screaming each other's names and Mama was crying as she clutched at her baby bump.

"No! Papa, no, come back! Papa!"

He ran after the truck, through the streets and the slime and the oil. He choked on the fumes but he kept running until he couldn't run any more.

"Papa!"

Woof collapsed in the streets, panting. His legs felt like they were on fire. He could feel bile rising in his throat.

The truck had disappeared.

His father was gone.

* * *

There was a series of rapid, urgent, heavy raps on their apartment door.

Woof turned quickly to his mother who was breastfeeding baby Milo. She handed Woof's little brother to him, cleaned herself up and wrapped a dirty shawl around herself before opening the door.

It was the new Head Peacekeeper. His name was Kemper. His flaky skin, receding hairline and large front teeth were the cause of much mirth with the children of 8 – behind closed doors, of course. If any grown up heard them it was a smack and bed with no supper... if the kid could afford going to bed without supper.

Kemper strode into the room and looked at it in distaste.

"Can I help you sir?" offered Mama in a small voice.

The man shook his head and gave a devilish smile. "No, it's more a matter of whether or not _I _can help _you_."

Milo started to gurgle and blow spit bubbles. He reached his tiny hands up to his big brother with a stupid silly smile on his face. Woof rocked him back and forth like he had seen his Mama do.

_Go to sleep, little baby, please go to sleep. _

"What do you mean sir?" Mama asked Kemper.

"You see, I'm checking to make sure everyone is watching the first ever Hunger Games tournament like they're _supposed _to be doing. But –" He gestured around the apartment. "– It seems to me that nobody is actually _doing _that. And do you know what I have to do now?"

Mama looked stricken. Woof watched in horror as Milo cooed away in his arms, blissfully unaware of what was going on around him.

"I can take you down to prison, or I can take those little boys away from you _on top _of taking you to prison, or if you cause us enough hassle we could just shoot the place up, really."

"You can't," breathed Mama.

"Not anything in the rulebook says I can't, and you'd better watch your little whore mouth."

Woof's lip trembled and he looked to his Mama and she closed her eyes as if to gain focus. Kemper's eyes lingered on her a little too long, his hand twitched, his stance changed. Woof saw it all.

After a few moments, Mama turned to her son.

"Woof, take Milo into the other room please. I have to apologize to Mr. Kemper and these gentlemen."

Woof looked back and forth between his mother and these new strangers. "Milo hasn't finished his feeding yet."

"Dammit boy, listen to your Ma and get your ass into the room!" snapped Kemper irritably.

Woof left.

He rocked his crying infant brother back and forth, singing lullabies and telling him stories, anything to distract the child and himself from the grunts and moans and heavy breathing that came from the room beside him.

_Sleep little baby sleep. _

The noises turned into a rhythm.

_Sleepbabysleepbabysleepbabysleep._

After a few hours, it all stopped.

The door closed and Woof ran back in to his mother.

"Mama?"

His mother was on the floor, her hair matted with sweat and bruise marks along her arms. She looked down at herself absent-mindedly.

"Go find a towel, sweetie."

Woof looked and looked but he couldn't find one, he tried and looked all over the apartment but all they had was Milo's blanket.

"I'm sorry Mama," he cried.

She reached out an arm to him and Woof snuggled up to his Mama but there was something about his mother now that was cold, removed.

"Come here, Woofy. Let's just cry together."

They did.

* * *

An eighteen-year-old Woof looked across District 8 from his grimy, smog-smeared window.

It made for a poor show – a never-ending stretch of grey and black, with the little people far below moving slowly and cautiously, making sure to not labour themselves too much.

Everybody here moved as if they were afraid. Like there was a phantom whip licking their heels or the fog that refused to leave the streets had broken through their skin and bone, clouding their brains and turning them into zombies.

"Mama?"

The voice that responded was slurred, heavy with emotion and accusation.

"What do you want?" his mother drawled.

She was a shadow of her former self – stringy hair, covered in barely a rag, with not even shoes or a hairbrush to her name.

"I'm going to work, Mama," said Woof slowly, in case she didn't hear. Sometimes she didn't and went out looking for him.

His mother looked up at him curiously. "Bring Milo with you, sweetie, will you?"

Woof's voice caught in his throat.

"Milo's dead, Mama. You know that."

"Dead?" Mama's eyes were wide and scared. "Dead like Daddy?"

"Yes, Mama." Woof couldn't look at her and he stared at the floor.

There was silence.

"Get out," she whispered. Her voice rose to a shout. "_Get out_! You killed him! You killed my son!"

"No, Mama. Milo went hungry. Lots of the kids go hungry," said Woof, his voice hollow. She brandished an empty bottle at him, the latest from Kemper, and Woof turned around and walked straight out.

He stormed down the streets of District 8, ignoring the gang fights in the alleyways and the whores calling after him, and he stopped up short at an intersection between the factory and the empty market complex.

Woof remembered his father's words.

Be tough.

He _was_ tough. He didn't cry.

It was with a long stride and a croaky whistling tune that he walked to work that day.

When his best friend asked him was he alright for the fourth time, he said he'd sew his hand to his mouth if he asked that question one more fucking time.

* * *

"Woof Dennis!"

The nation watched as Woof stepped out to take his place.

To be fair, he was no Romulus, he didn't have the bulging biceps of Marcus or Murray, but he was broad and strong despite his gaunt face and chapped lips.

His escort tried to get him to repeat his name.

"You just said it," Woof grumbled. His escort didn't talk to him for three days.

On the train, he ate so much he got sick and then ate some more. He'd never tasted anything more than boiled water and bread made from tesserae and the glorious delicacies that surrounded him now were too good an opportunity to pass up.

In the Capitol, they fawned over his curly brown locks and big arms and his stylist told him his blue eyes were like being told the trauma of a whirlpool, whatever the fuck _that_ meant. In training, he spent the entire day at survival skills apart from the hour where he tried out sword-fighting.

He was good with a sword.

For his interviews, they dressed him up in a suave blue suit lined with decorative, flamboyant collars and he was so embarrassed he completely forgot about what his escort and district-employed mentor had told him to say.

Cicero asked him his game plan. Woof improvised and simply said, "Win, I 'spose."

Giggles rippled throughout the crowd.

The ever-jubilant host asked him about his family.

"Not gonna go there."

The audience were stunned into silence. Nobody had ever refused them entertainment before.

Luckily, the Gamemakers had planned hell for the tributes anyway, Woof included.

When the pedestals rose into a grassy forest arena filled with flowers and cool, rolling rivers, many tributes were just glad it wasn't worse.

One of them was suspicious and he was the first off his pedestal.

Woof picked up a sword and parried with the pair from 7, blocking and ducking their eager swipes, before landing a punch to the boy's nose and knocking the girl to her feet with a swift undercut.

"See you," he said as he disappeared across the knoll.

In many ways, Woof was right to be suspicious of the Gamemakers. The arena was designed to host their brand new introduction to the Games: mutts.

The deranged, unsightly, vicious hybrids left over after the Dark Days and even some that they'd been brewing up in the Capitol labs just for the Games.

And goodness, did they have them. Wolves, fast as lightning, with more teeth than you could count, took down half of the tributes within the first fourty-eight hours. Tracker jackers stings drove three outer district girls to madness.

Many viewers thought the onslaught would end soon to leave room for fighting but it simply got worse. The boy from 10 was stripped to the bone by carnivorous leeches while his ally from 4 fled across the plain only to be picked apart by the ravens that descended upon him, picking his flesh apart. They scoured the arena ruthlessly and took out two more.

Woof was smart enough to stick to his strength: manpower. He fought the bear and wolf mutts in the woods tirelessly, hidden from the more deceptive and airborne creatures that he knew he had no ground over.

He almost lost an arm to a bloodthirsty fox mutt on the third day. That's when he got the water in a canteen that floated down from the sky.

But the Capitol wanted a showdown and used their fancy new wolves to bring together Woof and the trembling yet elusive boy from 6 who had taken a leaf out of Caleb's book and protected himself in the woods by rigging traps against the beasts who thirsted for his blood.

The young boy from 6 raised his knife and tried to look threatening.

Woof sighed and lifted up his sword.

It was no contest.

Woof looked down at the boy he had slaughtered, his guts seeping and his eyes bulging, and tried not to vomit.

Be tough, he thought.

_You've got to be tough for Da._

* * *

As the trumpets blared, in a spacious and comfortable room far away, four pairs of eyes stared up at the screen where a young man knelt next to the boy he had just killed with wide, unbelieving eyes and ignored the hovercraft that had come to collect him.

"Shocking behaviour, really," Romulus said flippantly, as if discussing the weather.

"Oh shut up, not everyone's made for murder," Mags snapped at him.

"Yes Maggie, as you've all too clearly demonstrated by your victory and lack of victors since," said Romulus with a smirk.

Mags made an obscene hand gesture at her fellow victor across the table without changing her expression. Noden put one hand on her shoulder and lifted his other delicately, as if to tell everyone to relax.

"Calm down, Mags. I take it you didn't call us together to barter insults, Romulus," said Noden smoothly.

"Not at all Denny!" said Romulus. Marcus sat beside him in sombre silence, his arms folded, watching Woof be lifted out of the arena as the live feed cut to Cicero and celebrity guests commenting on his win. "On the contrary, I have a... proposition."

Mags and Noden looked at him curiously, the same kind of perplexed and cautious expression. Romulus must have found it comical because he sniggered.

"Now now, nothing _sexual_. Yet. You'll have to release the frustration one day Maggie."

He barely missed the wine glass that hit the wall just behind his head.

"See, my reflexes are still Games-ready. And while I speak of the Games, my proposition is Games related. I want to propose an alliance for all foreseen Games. Let's call it an experiment for now."

Mags cocked her head. "Between 2 and 4?" She looked at Noden. "What do you think?"

The man was running his hand along his scar as if it calmed him. "It could be beneficial. What's in it for us?"

Romulus smiled. "Well, I think it's safe to say: more supplies, including weapons, more sleep, more sponsors, more interest and publicity, shared goods. You know, the works. Plus, you've got a better chance of bringing one of your little whelps home."

Noden was unreadable. "Why us? Why not the axe-throwers from 7 or the harvesters from 9? They're as good with a sickle as anyone. Grainne has proved that."

"Ha! You read my mind, Mr. Sloane! lf you're thinking along that logic, you might as well say we should include Jerome and the Twelves in case they put a pick axe in the Cornucopia. I'll tell you why. Firstly: _you have more victors, _more time for tributes.

Secondly,you have more passion, more fight. That inspires tributes. And lastly, you're from the fishing district. You know how to survive. I think we'd make a great... team," said Romulus, raising his glass and draining it.

Mags turned to Noden. "He bugs the shit out of me, and I hate to say it but he has a point."

Her old mentor stared up at the screen where they were replaying Woof dispatching a wolf mutt that crept up on him at night. He pierces its belly, fixes up his wound and crawls back to his camp. The camera focuses in on Woof's determined, pained face.

"I have two questions for Marcus, who I know won't lie to me."

The young man looks up and his stare is penetrating as he looks at the man from 4.

"Do you think we need more districts, and what are Romulus' other motives?"

Marcus hesitates.

"I think we should ask 7 or 1 as a back-up. District 7 for power and grit, and District 1 because they're pretty and can get us public support. As for your concerns toward our integrity, Romulus and I genuinely want us to succeed." He pauses again. "But Romulus is also sick of seeing weaklings win."

Romulus shrugs. "I didn't like Caleb's trap stunt and Jerome is a joke, so what? Just my opinion," he says, holding up his hands. "This new kid ain't so bad," he says, motioning towards Woof. "He's sturdy, tough. But not enough to make up for District 8's usual drivel."

Noden and Mags stand.

"It's settled then. We approach Thorne and invite him to join us – he's fairly agreeable, there should be no problems. The Ones are our back up. If both refuse, we take it from there," Noden says diplomatically.

Marcus and Romulus both rise and the former refills all their glasses.

"To Woof Dennis, our newest fellow, and to us – and our new alliance."

As they toast, a boy from District 8 slips away into a drug-induced sleep he doesn't want to wake up from.


	15. Jasmia

It was all supposed to go according to plan.

Linon and Peridot had been working hard for months, the former showing a soft-spot for whatever murks and tough pretty kids that would listen to him and the latter taking on the rest. Admittedly, it was difficult at first, but when they heard the salary and the perks of being a victor it made a strong case.

It had all been organized between the three districts: 1, 2 and 4. They would choose their tributes and then their selected ones would volunteer and go into the arena and ally with one another. It was all smooth, fool-proof, even with Linon trying to be politically correct and sneak a few murks into the training programme that Peridot had set up.

But then, at the last minute, it was all ruined.

Their girl, Shimmer, had been volunteered for by someone else. Peridot's blonde bombshell, Adonis, looked across to his mentor in outrage and confusion, his nostrils flaring. But he kept his mouth shut – he wasn't stupid and he knew when to keep quiet.

She was a murk, this volunteer, unquestionably beautiful but not in a conventional way. She was mysterious, alluring, with caramel skin and sleek black hair. She looked out at the crowd with determined emerald eyes as she repeated her name and a red-faced Shimmer slunk off the stage.

"Jasmia Jespere."

People began to whisper. Her name was not fit for a murk. Generally, murks were given lowly names to solidify their place in society. Nobody said it was right but it was never challenged.

Yet this girl stood up in front of them, bold as brass, throwing her hair over her shoulder, acting like she owned the place as she flashed a smile at Peridot and her district partner. She winked at Linon who laughed behind his hand. He shook his head, hardly believing what he was seeing.

He remembered this girl.

She had come to him during the selection process, demanding to be allowed her chance.

Linon had been honest.

"Peridot will never let you past that stage," he had told her bluntly.

She crossed her arms and huffed. "Why not?"

"Because you're not the type of… tribute… he likes," explained Linon.

"I couldn't give a flying fuck what he likes, I know what to do for the Games. It's easy. I'll show him that I can do it," she hissed.

Linon sighed. "You're very eager. I don't think you know what you're getting into. You're pretty, healthy. You have everything to lose."

Jasmia stared at him coldly. "Nothing to lose for a bastard murk in 1."

Linon groaned. Another sad case with a death wish.

Well, it was her funeral.

Jasmia got what she asked for. She was going to be on the tribute train whether Peridot liked it or not.

She wasn't District 1's first choice and they muttered unhappily as she strode into the Justice Building where nobody was there to say goodbye to her. After a few minutes, Linon came in and sat with her just so she wouldn't feel so bad.

The jab at sentimentality didn't have much of an effect.

Peridot's lad, Adonis, was everything that you could want in a tribute: breathtakingly handsome, swift, able-bodied and smooth-talking. He came from a rich family and he had experience fencing… even Linon couldn't deny that he'd be able to pick up sword-fighting relatively quickly and efficiently.

The Capitol would be clamouring over themselves in excitement to sponsor him, send him what he needed, there was no doubt about it.

In training, the truth came out: District 2 had opted for brawn, sending a pair of walking biceps that snarled at everything and everyone. Mags and Noden went for two fisherman's kids with short tempers. The other tributes were nothing to worry about: only the girl from 10 and the boy from 7 showed anything problematic. The six allies stuck together in training but it was clear that there was no trust, no solidarity.

Jasmia leaned back as they sniped back and forth at each other.

"Let me know when you're finished, I'll be hanging out with the swords," she said irritably, moving over to the weapons station and picking up a falchion. She spent a few hours with it before moving to survival skills, completely ignoring her new allies.

"If you continue to antagonize your allies, they will kill you as soon as that gong rings, do you understand?" he said, his voice rising to a yell.

Jasmia rolled her eyes and went to bed.

Linon punched the table as Adonis and Peridot gorged on dinner and bantered about the women in the Capitol.

Interview Night was her only chance at redemption and Linon was shitting himself.

_Moment of truth_, he thought as the lights came up and Cicero stepped out.

Adonis' interview was exceptional, half the tribute girls and every woman in the Capitol wanted a piece of him by the end of it. He spoke to Cicero about the jewels back in District 1, comparing them to the Capitol women, and then showed his abs and said he wasn't scared of trying new things in the arena, winking down at the rugged, good-looking eighteen-year-old from 7 who set his jaw and clenched his fists.

Jasmia was up next.

Well, Linon couldn't be more surprised.

She was every bit the flatterer, throwing compliments at Cicero and the audience while always making herself look good. She said that she was just as pale as everyone else in District 1, just she spent more time outside (Adonis' lip curled at this) and she really hoped to be in an arena with a walk-in wardrobe.

"And why is that, Jasmia?" Cicero asked her over the hoots of laughter.

Jasmia grinned cheekily.

"Well, I've got to find something to match my crown."

None of the other tributes had a chance that night. Not the Twos with their promise of pain and blood, or the Fours with their stance on pride and loyalty, or even the boy from 7 who drawled out a sombre, eerie forewarning of pain to anyone who came near him the next day.

It was all about Jasmia.

The pedestals lifted the tributes into an arena heavy with humidity and filled with a sense of foreboding. The jungle that surrounded them was full of bright flowers and twisting foliage but the darkness reminded them that this was a garden of horrors and they were all to tread carefully.

A new alliance comprised of three inner districts sought out the weaker tributes and took them down.

The girl from 4 lost her life to the boy from 7 before he scarpered, clutching at the shoulder wound inflicted by the fisher girl before her death. The tributes from 2 were hacking away at anyone and everyone. The girl from 10 wove in between the fighting, picking up loose items and miraculously not sustaining an injury.

Jasmia had obtained a falchion in the heart of the Cornucopia and she didn't fight with it so much as she seemed to be dancing and using it at the same time. It was like an extension of her arm. Blood spilled around her in artistic patterns and her emerald eyes darted about, constantly looking for the next target.

The cannons began to sound when Adonis approached her.

"You're better than you look, murk," he said.

It was a bad move.

Jasmia stuck her falchion in his throat and spit in his neck as he crumpled to the ground. She heard her allies' cries of surprise but she was already gone, through the leaves and jumping over low-lying trunks and past the beasts that crouched waiting to pounce.

The Capitol had lost one of their favourites to win and Jasmia had lost her main competitor.

A week passed and the numbers had whittled down. The boy from 4 had deserted the constantly bickering pair from 2, who ended up fighting to the death in a sick honour battle. He was running so fast he didn't notice the foot fly out from the undergrowth and he stumbled and fell into the quicksand.

"Please, help me!" he begged as he sank deeper.

Jasmia leant down and looked him straight in the eye.

"You do realize where you are?" she said to him, her voice steady and straight.

She took an apple her sponsors had sent her out of her backpack and walked away, chewing on it greedily.

She hadn't eaten in two days.

That night, Jasmia looked up at the sky. There were just two left. The only outliers who had bothered to stand out – she admired them for that and they deserved a final fight. She gripped her falchion and set out to look for them.

It was the girl from 10 that Jasmia found first. She was curled up inside a log, eyes wide and terrified as the girl from 1 looked down at her.

"Come out here, I won't hurt you," said Jasmia.

The girl did. She was covered in mud and sweat and her own blood.

"How did you get this far?" Jasmia asked her sweetly.

The girl took out a bag of nuts and berries and a small canteen of water. Jasmia smiled and nodded.

"Well done, truly. You're good."

Then she slit her throat. The girl fell back, her eyes wide and accusing.

When the boy from 7 came to meet her, he was wielding an axe covered in guts and bone splinters and even bits of green goo.

"Ew, Seven, what the hell is that?" Jasmia asked, revolted.

"The plants bleed. The _plants_ bleed. They…" he stuttered.

"Shame, I never got to see. Let's see what you bleed."

The boy paled and then they both charged.

The fight lasted for eleven minutes and ended with Jasmia's falchion in the boy's gut. But she wouldn't stop. All of a sudden, the boy from 7 was everyone she hated and every snide comment, every 'murk' and 'bastard' that had been thrown at her was channelled into her sword and she brought it down over and over again and the blood was on her chest, her knees, her stomach, her hands, everywhere.

A sound of a hovercraft approaching signalled that the Games were over.

"_I'm not finished!_" she screeched as they stunned the dark-haired girl.

Jasmia toppled over, twitching, her face still set in a scowl.

She couldn't even remember hearing trumpets.

* * *

In the Mentoring Headquarters, Linon looked on in horror as Peridot stood behind him tutting.

"You really must have a word with your tribute, Corbett, that behaviour won't fly now," he said, his tone slathered with condescension and ridicule.

Linon expected the Capitol to be annoyed, disappointed, he thought that Jasmia might never be seen again after this.

He swept into the hospital and found her lying there, staring at the wall opposite her, clutching her bedframe tightly. Linon went to rest his hand on hers and she tried to throttle him. A nurse ran over to sedate the girl.

"No! Give us a minute, alright?"

Jasmia was breathing in and out furiously, her chest heaving. Her green eyes were demented; a vein in her temple was throbbing. She was angry now, uncontrollably so. Something about her had changed; she was not the same girl as before.

"The arena has brought out the worst in you," whispered Linon.

"Let's see them call me murk now," sneered Jasmia. "I'm a Victor."

A week later, after intense psychological therapy that set the precedent for all victors that came after her, Jasmia walked out to an explosive round of applause such as the Games had never seen. She waved as she was told to, followed the script, and watched herself kill and persevere and survive for eleven awful days.

It brought the memories back.

Jasmia Jespere went back to her hotel room that night and trashed it.

When she broke the mirror in the bathroom with a shriek of unadulterated rage, it cut her hands apart and she allowed the pain to run through her because now she didn't know anything else.

Pain was a part of the Games and she was still playing.

_Always playing. _

The Games were painful.

Jasmia had learned one thing in the past few weeks.

Pain.

It felt good.


	16. Simmone

'_**Things to remember when you're a tribute.'**_

_**A list assembled, revised, destroyed and rewritten on numerous occasions by Simmone Malou, Victor of the Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games.**_

* * *

**The odds are almost never in your favour. **

As one of the largest districts in Panem, District 11 has to face the unfortunate necessity of going through two selection processes.

In a small, cramped, stuffy office in the epicentre of the vast region, an anonymous, impartial participant reaches a gloved hand into two separate sheer, shiny wooden boxes that contain thousands upon thousands of names.

Six hundred are selected: three hundred boys and girls each.

In the end, the rolls of parchment go out all across the district: to the low-lying villages, the market towns, the vale communities, the isolated orchard clans. They summon the child and a parent or guardian to attend the Reaping.

Every spring, families curl up and whisper silent prayers to their earth gods that watch over the harvest and the plants and the soil that produces their bounty to spare their children. They pray that there is no knock on the door by the men or women in white uniform who carry a damning scroll. There is a desperate hope nobody will come for their young who just want to bathe in the pools and listen to their grandparent's stories at night.

But by the time the Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games rolls around with the weight of three hundred and twenty two dead children under its name, the hope has subsided and all that can be felt is fear – palpable, undeniable fear.

The Peacekeepers are dispatched a month prior to the Reaping for the Fifteenth and they go to the Malou household, a cabin far too small for its nine inhabitants.

"By the instruction of our Madame President Philomela Tide and the state of Panem, Ms. Simmone Malou is hereby obligated to attend a compulsory Reaping in the District 11 Business Blockade this coming June. You can find further details on the parchment," a voice from behind a white mask told them.

After the door shuts and they're all alone, Simmone is overwhelmed. There's a terror in the eyes of her mother as Simmone's five siblings and two little cousins surround her and cling to her, holding on to her as if they'll never see her again.

Simmone looks around their small cabin: the hole in the wall they call a fireplace, the mismatch of stone and straw, the little window that she always likes to sleep opposite because if you wake up at the right time you can see the sun rise across the orchard and it ripples of the corn and the leaves and it's _beautiful_.

"It's just a reaping," Simmone tells them, trying to sound casual.

She doesn't even believe the words she's saying.

* * *

**Don't cry at the Reaping. **

The cattle are there for the slaughter, the cameras are perched and about to roll and the Capitol liaison insists on getting in the zone before the cameras start recording. Simmone's mother clings to her daughter all the way to the taking of the blood.

Simmone's mother takes her face in her hands. "I love you. I'll find you after."

"Love you," Simmone whispers back and goes to join the other eighteen year olds.

As she makes her way to her section, Simmone looks across the crowd, a mass of dark-skinned girls and boys more often than not. They're terrified, all of them, from the sniffling twelve-year-olds rubbing their sweaty palms nervously on their best clothes to the older kids staring stonily ahead, not affording the cameras a glance because they're older and more resentful now.

These are the ones who have seen the Games since their inception, who have watched some of their friends die because of them. There's a fire in their eyes and Simmone feels their hatred burn in the pit of her stomach as the Capitol liaison waffles on about loyalty and justice and building a brighter future.

You can tell that some of these boys and girls have been here before. It's rare for someone to make a return trip to the Blockade, but not unheard of. The entire Reaping in 11 is a terrible affair because due to the small pool of eligible tributes here, the chances of a volunteer is also slimmer.

Simmone clenches her fists, lifts her chin and steels herself.

A few minutes later a long-nailed hand grasps at a single slip of paper and reads out her name.

She doesn't cry.

Even when she hears her mother screaming in the distance, even when she sees that her district partner has to hobble up to the stage on a crutch with tears streaming down his face, she doesn't match it with any emotion of her own.

She knows people remember.

No, Simmone Malou does not cry.

Not until she's well away from the cameras at least.

* * *

**Have patience with the stylists, they're just doing their job. **

They pluck her like a wild groosling and Simmone half expects to be shaved bald next but they let her keep her curly bouncing ringlets. They don't even straighten them.

"Why not?" she asks.

"We don't want you confused with Jasmia, darling," he says kindly.

Simmone forces herself to believe that the stylist has hidden motives. She tries to believe that he thinks her hair is becoming of her, that he doesn't need to change a thing. It has nothing to do with her looking like the nutcase from last year's Games.

She presumed that he would make more of an effort in dressing her up for the interview, that he would talk her through the gown she'd be wearing and what his artistic inspiration was, but he just pours himself some wine and watches her shrewdly as the make-up and costume people pour in and make a fuss over her.

Simmone doesn't think that she looks a bit like herself as her team transform her into a 'living silhouette', or that's what they call their new idea. She's dressed head to toe in black – apparently femme fatale is all the rage in the Capitol now, no doubt due to Jasmia's win – and she sports heavy basalt earrings, a revealing black dress that they say 'hugs all the right curves'.

Quite frankly, Simmone can't breathe in it.

It takes her two hours to walk without stumbling in high heels and another three hours of her styling team trying to figure out what her outfit is missing.

"Just hurry up before I add one of _you _to my kill list!" Simmone eventually snaps.

They quickly give her a pair of long-sleeved deluxe gloves and shove her out of prep before she can brandish anything at them.

* * *

**Make a good impression at the interviews. **

Her interview is a disaster.

"Simmone Malou, you look _ravishing_! I bet every boy in the Capitol would pay a thousand coins to dance with you."

There's a pause as Simmone gives Cicero Twyblossom an affronted look and weighs up her words.

_Fuck it_.

"I don't dance," she says coldly.

Cicero's smile falters somewhat as he moves on to the next few questions. Simmone shoots him down every time as if she had prepared for this her whole life.

He asks about her family, she says they're fine and nothing more. He asks her for hobbies; she has none. Her favourite colour, school, what is District 11 like, but she deflects his attempts at conversation and attention in the studio dips more and more as the interview go on.

Desperation leads the presenter to talk about the Games. Simmone straightens up a little when he asks her about her strategy.

"I'd hardly reveal my game plan in front of the people plotting to kill me now, would I?" she says sarcastically.

Cicero laughs as the audience awakens and Simmone can't help but think that they _really_ don't get her.

She returns to her room that night and cries into her pillow, deflated and pissed off and cursing everything and everyone that led her here.

* * *

**Don't make the dash for the Cornucopia. **

The gong sounds in an arena covered in ice and snow and twenty tributes make the deadly sprint, including Simmone.

Blood splashes across the white surface of the Cornucopia located at the edge of a steep cliff and Simmone thanks the gods for her long legs and her natural agility as she clambers away from the madness with a machete and a backpack.

She's halfway to safety when a body collides into her and there's a brief struggle as he grabs at her hair and she slices at him with her machete.

And then _oh shit _they tumble off the edge of a ravine and her screams melt and mix with those of the boy who mindlessly attacked her.

They hit the ground and everything turns to black.

Simmone wakes up, not knowing how long it's been since she fell but all she knows is that this other tribute broke her fall and gods how is she alive?

She knows her shoulder is ablaze with pain and _fuck it hurts_ and when she looks at it that's when she almost passes out.

People across the nation look on in revulsion and admiration as, in one quick movement, Simmone pops her bone back into its socket. She crawls along the ravine and slowly makes her way up the slope, over the edge of the cliff and past the shivering alliance at the Cornucopia who are too busy trying to keep their campfire going to notice her.

That night she settles into a safe cavern to hide from the wind and the cold and a parachute lands outside for her.

Simmone looks at it in amazement and confusion before rushing over and unlocking it. Inside is a perfect sling to hold up her injured arm.

It was the only sponsorship she received.

* * *

**Alliances can only end badly.**

Ten days in, Simmone had struck up an alliance with the reserved but wily girl from District 3. Her name was Connie. Her counterpart had died at the Cornucopia on the first day but she had survived in the wooded area of the arena with nothing but a hatchet and a few boxes of matches.

"What are you eating?" Simmone asked her, trying to sound fierce as she shook with the cold.

"Tree bark and plants mostly, I know what's safe to eat," said Connie as she held up her small burlap sack.

Simmone was in no position to turn down food and sat down by the girl's small fire and tried to get warm.

The Career alliance was less brittle and more focused this year but they eventually ran out of tributes to hunt and when they couldn't find Simmone and her ally, they collapsed in on themselves. Only the boy from 4 remained after the second bloodbath and he dragged himself towards the Cornucopia, his guts falling out of him, before collapsing in the snow.

The Gamemakers panicked and sent snow-white, ravenous wolf-mutts on the remaining competitors.

Simmone was flexible, Simmone was fast, Simmone knew how to climb trees. She scaled the great trees in the forest and felt the callouses in her hands burst and her sling fall to the ground and a familiar pain sear in her shoulder but her survival instinct was stronger than ever as she moved upward away from the snarling and yapping.

Connie was a competent climber but she was also slower.

Too slow.

A wolf mutt leapt and grabbed at her heel, its teeth catching on the leg of her trousers. She shrieked and instinctively held onto Simmone's leg and refused to let go.

"Simmone, help me, please!"

She was shrill and panicky and the pack of wolves were right beneath them and Simmone wanted to reach for her but she couldn't, it wasn't possible, the stinking mutts would get her too.

"I can't!" cried Simmone. "I can't Connie, let go, you have to let me go!"

"Please, I don't want to die!" Connie said as tears poured down her face.

She wasn't letting go.

Simmone felt herself slipping, falling downward into the abyss. It was then, when she felt death breathing on her neck that she brought her machete slicing down and straight through Connie's hand.

Connie's eyes met Simmone's and she dropped with a soundless scream to the mutts waiting for her below.

The Gamemakers didn't sound the trumpets until there was nothing left of her.

* * *

**You will never be the same ever again. **

"District 11, I give you your first Victor: Simmone Malou!" says Simmone's escort excitedly.

There's a splatter of forced applause as the people of Simmone's home district are made to show respect and appreciation for this girl who stands before them, slender and tall and adorned in the latest Capitol fashions and the finest jewellery that District 1 could ever offer.

But Simmone can see deep in their eyes what she feels in her heart. Not just a resignation to this cruel new game, but resentment for her, for _this_, for what she partook in and won and why did she have to bring this _here_ because a thousand innocent dead kids is better than one murderer in their eyes.

She tries to ignore the lump in her throat that has nothing to do with her gratitude as she thanks them for their support during the Games.

Their eyes say everything.

_You let the girl fall._

_You let the mutts have her. _

They all go back in droves to their homes to forget about the trauma of the past Games and hope that they'll find some comfort in the parcel full of goods and scrumptious fruits and candies that'll come in the train at the end of the month.

Simmone goes to her new home in the Victor's Village, shiny and furbished and beautiful.

At night she prays to the gods of her family, the harvest and tree gods, that she may be forgiven.

She waits for a sign of their response, a breath of wind or a rustling of leaves or the sound of birdsong.

It never comes.


	17. Shale

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark ignited The Second Rebellion with a handful of berries and a romance that besotted a nation.

But they weren't the first to tender the flame of revolt in the hearts of Panem's citizens.

With an axe and a forcefield and a desperate plan Haymitch Abernathy reminded them that they did not have to be knights and pawns on the Capitol's chessboard when he used their own arena against them.

Across the country men and women looked on and for the first time in a long time they thought: _I am not a slave._

But it all started much earlier than that. It began with a boy from District 2 of all places.

His name was Shale Cotter.

Born to a loyalist family on the outskirts of the Stone City, the eldest of six brothers, he was eighteen when the landlord told them they could no longer put off paying their rent. Even with all the boys of age putting in extra hours at the quarry every day of the week on top of hauling about ripe fruit and raw vegetables and screeching animals at the market, they couldn't afford to live under their own roof.

Shale could see no way out of the mess and he was so sure that his family was going to end up on the streets.

He knew what the street folk were like – if they weren't beggars, they were thieves, pickpockets and marauders and criminals. When they got older, they became rapists and murderers. He wouldn't let his family, the ever-proud and hard-working Cotters, lowly and humble but respected, crumble to the ground like that.

Yet they were slowly starving, their clothes were getting filthier, and their hope was waning.

Then two men stepped into his life and saved it.

"We're recruiting for our Academy," said the elder of the two. "We discipline young boys and girls across the entirety of District 2 in the hopes that they achieve their own physical, academic and personal excellence."

The younger of the two, the Victor from three years past, fidgeted uncomfortably as if the words made him itch.

Shale's parents begged him to not go, they needed him there – his _brothers_ needed him there. But once a Cotter has made his mind up, there's no turning back. Shale threw his meagre collection of drab, colourless clothes together into a shabby, equally tattered bag and set off with his new companions.

When he left his home, Shale believed that he would be going to a refuge, a haven – he didn't expect a Capitol hotel but he thought things would be comfortable at least.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

The first night, their information was taken and written down in firm, steady handwriting before being placed into a sterilized cabinet drawer deep in the Academy vaults. They were given nametags and numbers.

Shale was 2M0032.

That same night there was a thunderstorm and a boy came, begging for someone to let him in. He said he didn't know anywhere else and they had burned the Community Home to the ground, not leaving a piece of mortar or wood without a scorch upon its surface. He shared the same bunk as Shale and the boy wept, dulling the sounds of his sobs by crying into his pillow.

The victors called an assembly the next morning.

"One thing you must learn about the Academy," Romulus boomed as he paced around them like a predator about to snatch up its prey. "Is that you must learn to isolate any emotion that will interfere with the task you are trying to carry out."

Shale's eyes discretely darted sideways and saw Marcus put his hand on the shoulder of the boy who had cried himself to sleep the night before, as if to offer him some small strength.

"Tears are a weakness you cannot afford."

He motioned to the small, weedy boy who stumbled forward with his head ducked and his shoulders sulking.

"Stand tall. You are a child of District 2," said Romulus.

"We are sons and daughters of the mountains," Marcus said.

Romulus' eyes narrowed. "Repeat it, with meaning."

"We are children of District 2, sons and daughters of the mountains," they all echoed back.

Shale could've sworn he stared at him, just for a moment.

"This is your last warning, your last mercy. From this moment forward, any mistake will be sorely punished."

They were dismissed and the assembly hung heavy over their heads.

Boys stole from one another, girls gossiped and tore and clawed to get what they wanted and people found loopholes, quick cuts through the new rules. If you wanted to cry, there was a storage cupboard near the kitchens that Marcus and Romulus never passed by. Underneath the grove was the best place to make out or more.

Of course, there will still beatings, punishments. If you got caught breaking the rules, you got a hiding. If you whimpered after a particularly bad fall in athletics training, you got hit. If you didn't do your homework on the history of Panem, you got hit. If you forgot about who won The Hunger Games, and how they won it, you got hit.

There were also the bandits and the street rats that crawled in daily, and they were the ones who got a battering for stealing from the kitchens because they were unrelentingly hungry or nicking anything from anywhere because it was fun and Romulus could go skin himself for all they cared.

Shale, for one, was consistent in his work, both physical and academic. He was rarely distracted and struck up few friendships, but as he grew older he developed muscles and stubble and well, teenagers are just walking bags of hormones aren't they? The girls tried to get his attention on a regular basis at the benches, during meals, any time they could.

But Shale would glance at them with confused, uninterested eyes and move along.

There was a reason he developed a sudden respect for the spiritual, or why he would sometimes purposefully get a question or two wrong on the mountaineering section of his tests, why he would look away bashfully whenever his teacher would stand over him or by him or near him.

He saw in this man everything he admired: honesty, patience, humour, and on the sunnier days the light would hit his face just right and Shale could swear that he was like one of the statues of the gods hewn from marble outside of the gates of the Stone City.

He kept how smitten he was discreet, but there are some people who are too sharp for their own good.

Romulus noticed.

He called Shale into his office one day.

"Sit down, Cotter," he instructed.

Shale did so, trying to not to look like he was trembling.

"Marcus has taken your fancy," said Romulus matter-of-factly.

Shale opened his mouth, and then closed it, his brain instinctively buzzing and the gears in his mind churning, reaching for some kind of defence.

There was none.

He went with: "I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

Romulus smiled his infamous shark-grin, his teeth still jagged and his eyes black and cold. "There's no need to lie to me boy. I've been to the Capitol; you think two men doing it are the worst I saw? Frankly, I couldn't give two shits about whether you want to fuck boys or girls or both, you can hold a vow of abstinence for all I care."

The mountain of a man stood up and crossed over to the window. "But this is more a matter of _whom_ you want to fuck. The Games are coming up soon. I was wondering if you were planning on volunteering."

Shale was flabbergasted. "We… we're not allowed to train for the Games."

"Good thing we aren't then," Romulus retorted with a scowl. "We're simply helping the youth of our district to be the best they can be. Isn't that right?"

"Of course sir." Shale's mouth was dry. "I… I hadn't thought about volunteering. I mean… if you want me to…"

Romulus cut across him. "There are three victors in District 2, one of whom still insists on mentoring despite my protestations. Very soon we will be deciding who exactly will be going to the Capitol this summer, and if Marcus and Brick will be accompanying you and some sorry girly there, I need to know that personal feelings will not get in the way."

Shale shook his head. "I doubt he feels the same, so what difference does it make?"

Romulus let out a high, cruel laugh. "It makes all the difference. If he's trying to give you advice and all you're thinking about is how beautiful his eyes are, or what it would be like if you just leaned out and _kissed him_, if he would _kiss back_…"

Shale's eyes went wide. "You… how do you…"

"You need to find better hiding places for your diary. I'm perceptive and I have more free time than you do. Don't let the muscles deceive you. Funny stuff in there though, you should write more," said Romulus. "I've selected you personally as first-in-line to volunteer at the upcoming Reaping. If you can put your feelings and loins aside, will you be our tribute?"

The boy looked at the man across from him and in that moment he gave what he believed to be the right answer.

The training began almost right away. Shale and Marcus' girl, Cloelia, were put through their paces in combat, survival and presentation throughout the month leading up to the Reaping. Cloe was mean-looking, shrewd and took direction well. Shale finally mustered up the courage to formally introduce himself to her one afternoon after their wrestling training.

"Call me Cloe. You the boy-lover?" she asked him.

Shale went bright red. Cloe smirked.

"That's alright. A few of the girls have a hunch – you're a good looking guy surrounded by girls and you ain't even done it yet. No judgement. Plenty of boy-lovers where I come from. Least you like boys your own age," she said, practically spitting the last sentence.

"What do you mean?" Shale asked her, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"Got sent here for beating the shit out of my daddy, he was…" Cloe stopped and then looked at Shale before shaking her head. "Never mind. Fight you with a short sword… a _wooden _short sword, mind."

Shale smiled, his first genuine smile in weeks, and they sparred.

"Don't tell Romulus, but I ain't made up my mind about killing you in that arena, boy-lover," said Cloe with a wink.

Shale's smile sunk from his face quicker than it had appeared there. He liked this girl and decided he wouldn't allow himself to get any closer to Cloe than he had to get.

Over the weeks, Shale grew more limber and light on his feet. His reflexes sharpened, his intuition began to mould. After he felt like they were beginning to shape up in combat, Marcus took Shale and Cloe on a Capitol-approved foraging trip for herbs and plants.

Shale was crouched over a blueberry bush and he reached out to grab a handful of berries when an assertive cough came from behind him.

Marcus glared down at him. "Nightlock," he said.

Shale nodded and walked away to drain water from some branches. It was a hot day and he figured he might be able to get a canteen full to take back to the Academy.

Cloe had picked some green berries and was chewing on them cheerfully when she came striding back to their meeting point.

_No nightlock_, _green berries fine, always more water_, he scribbled in his journal that night.

Eventually the Reaping Day came.

Shale looked up at the mentors as they climbed onto the stage, hoping desperately that Marcus wouldn't be taking the seats to the left – the prominent seats, the ones that would be reserved for the men who would be going to the city with them. Brick showed up, inconspicuous and quiet, and took the first one. Shale looked across at Cloe, whose mouth was a thin line. She wasn't happy.

Then Marcus and Romulus both shook hands and… Marcus was sitting next to Brick.

_Shit, _thought Shale.

The Capitol escort called up two street kids from the old community home and when Shale and Cloe went to replace them they almost fainted in relief. The boy was happy to see the strong young man with the bulging muscles and the assured stance and the alertness in his eyes take his place next to the girl with the knowing, fierce smile.

The same thing was happening in Districts 1 and 4: young men and women stepping up and volunteering for those who had been called and across the nation, in the outer districts, there was dissent and fury. This was a plot, surely. Why were these children so perfect for the Games? Where were the strong children coming from, and who was making them powerful? Why did these tributes look so ready for the blood and pain to come when their own children were too focused on not pissing themselves in fear in front of the country?

_Why?_

The flames began to burn.

In the Capitol, Cloe and Shale stood out. The Fours hadn't learned from their mistakes, choosing jumped up fisherman's children with rage issues to brandish spears and make empty threats throughout the training process. Jasmia's girl was nothing like her mentor, blonde and beautiful from head to toe but utterly vacuous. Her district partner was handsome but had the charisma of a mountain goat.

Yet Marcus insisted that they keep the alliance together and Shale listened eagerly while Cloe laughed into her cream and mushroom soup. Brick looked at her sadly.

Training was easier for the Twos and their alliance members looked on in unease and envy as they sparred gracefully and heatedly before dashing to the survival stations and separating the nightlock and hemlock from the non-toxic plants, roots and berries.

The competition was thick that year. The pair from 11 were every bit as ferocious and strong-willed as their mentor who swept them away with a grim expression, and the girl from 5 was sharp and alert. Shale noticed how she never spent too long at one station and when she caught him looking at her progress, she would flutter about until his gaze had diverted elsewhere. The boy from 8 was the second coming of Woof, big and well-built. Even the Twelves didn't look utterly hopeless.

He told this all to Marcus, who sat back and closed his eyes before speaking carefully.

"Forget about 11 and 12. You needn't worry. The Twelves are just putting on a brave face and I'm sure Simmone is trying to make her pair look tougher and more expensive than they actually are. Now we get down to the nitty gritty, the real issues."

He leant forward and Shale listened even more intently, trying to ignore the shape of his mentor's sculpted body in his fitted shirt.

"District 5 isn't renowned for its astounding tributes, but if they make it through the bloodbath at the Cornucopia then they tend to go far. They're smart and methodical, Fives, but not in the same way Caleb was." Marcus chewed at his nail. "They'll wait you out and steal your supplies without you so much as noticing. The boy from 8 is more than likely just a big dumb kid, but he's a big dumb kid who'll snap your neck in two. Make him and 5 a priority, and cut down the Sevens before they can get their hands on the axes."

Shale nodded and got up to go to bed.

Marcus accompanied Shale to the tubes and the boy was restraining himself, trying not to shake. His mentor put his hand on his shoulder and Shale felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the death pit that was waiting above him.

"I believe in you," said Marcus.

Shale said nothing as he was lifted upwards.

The arena that year was the first desert, an endless wasteland of sand and dunes and rocks. The Gamemakers were still experimenting, still showing what they could do, and the stifling heat and bright sun proved to be a hindrance at the Cornucopia for some.

Shale and Cloe were off their pedestals early and claimed it for their own, cutting down the children from the lumber district as they'd been instructed to. A flash of mousey brown hair flew by Shale's peripheral vision and Shale remembered. He swung his warhammer and there was a crack, a squeaky sort of yelp and a burst of red as the girl from District 5 fell to the ground.

"Cloe, on 8!" yelled Shale.

His district partner got the picture. She took aim and fired at the retreating bulk of a boy from the textile district and he collapsed with a knife in his neck.

"Good shot," said Shale.

"_Lucky_ shot," said Cloe bitterly, kicking at a random corpse.

Shale looked up at the faces in the sky that night. 5, 7, 8, 11. All the rogues accounted for.

Over the next few days, whatever of the outer districts Shale's alliance didn't put down died of dehydration under the sun. Their own group suffered losses too – the girl from 1 didn't watch her step and tumbled into a pit of writhing, vicious rattlesnakes. Her district partner, whiny and whimpering and with nobody to protect him, lost his head afterwards and got a slit throat for his attitude.

Over time, exposure proved to be the real killer and on the fifth day, the girl from District 9 succumbed to dehydration and it was just the Twos and the Fours left.

It was a passionate battle but the fisher children were slow, dried out from the heat and they were drained and exhausted. Cloe's knives caught their flesh and as they recoiled Shale's warhammer swung into their skulls from behind.

_At the endgame, we put them between us, _Shale had told Cloe.

Distraction and destruction – the pair from 2 had planned it from the beginning.

The commentators were shrieking, the crowds were thunderous, but the Games were not over.

Shale leaned on his warhammer and motioned towards his friend, his confidante and ally.

"Well, this is it. You made up your about killing me?"

Cloe said nothing.

"We're here to fight. Let's fight."

"I can't. You're my district partner. You're a friend."

Shale stared at her. "Please don't make me kill you without a fight."

Cloe's hand moved and Shale adjusted just in time and her knife flew past his head, slicing open his cheek. Shale grinned as the blood trickled down his face.

"There's the girl I know. Let's dance."

Shale and Cloe fought valiantly in the sand. They battled with passion and desperation and they fought tooth and nail to get home. Cloe stood up with a split lip and blood in her hair, sweat running down her face as she stumbled backwards and prepared another knife. The blade was sharp and cruel and twisted.

"Do you see this one? This'll be the last one," she said with a wicked smile.

Shale gritted his teeth, drench in sweat as he lurched forward.

Her knife took off three fingers from his left hand but Shale's momentum carried him through and his hammer collided against Cloe's legs and she broke, collapsing into a heap in the sand.

Shale stood over her and she smiled weakly at him.

"Go on. Finish it," she whispered.

With a tremendous effort Shale lifted up his warhammer and brought it down again.

The trumpets sounded.

Shale was the first of three inner district victories that led to the true solidification of the traditional Career alliance. The naïve, scatter-brained mayor's daughter and impossibly handsome young man that followed him were all that was needed to fulfil the trust that had been missing in the pack since its formation.

They weren't much, just a silly girl and a party boy, but a win is a win.

In District 2, the people whooped and hollered and danced through the night as they replayed Shale's moment of victory. The Cotter family wept with joy and fear and disbelief and from his office, Romulus Farrow raised a glass of wine to his newest fellow.

But not everyone was happy.

Miles and miles away, in District 5, the nuclear plant workers and the solar energy researches and the labourers, academics and slaves alike, began to riot. None of their children had returned from the Games and with the supremacist pack of tributes that hunted them down like rats, they were angry that they had never stood a chance, would never _stand _a chance _now_. They tore down the television screen in the Main Square and burnt stalls and drew graffiti on the plants and the wind turbines and set false alarms for nuclear emergencies to draw the Peacekeepers away from the town so that the rioters could flood in more.

Across the way in District 6 the people felt the same. Railway workers and brothel owners and whores and philanderers halted their work and play and attacked Peacekeepers left, right and centre, biting and scratching and looting. In the rest of the districts, widespread violence of varying degrees against the armed forces was spontaneous and rampant but lasted all through the night.

Then the Capitol got involved.

The Districts were put under shut down, the fences were turned on and security was increased. People were executed, people were whipped, people starved to death in their homes and on the streets.

In the Capitol, Marcus pulled Shale aside. "You answer their questions vaguely, loyally, quickly. You love the Capitol, the Capitol can do no wrong, the Capitol is your lover, you understand?"

Shale looked into Marcus' eyes and found himself momentarily lost before saying, "Yes."

Cicero had arrived and was making his opening statements and cracking jokes when Marcus turned around at the last second.

"Romulus told me how you are. What you feel. And I can't feel it back. I'm sorry. Enjoy your victory celebration, the mountains are proud," said Marcus.

Shale told Cicero that night his fans' support was the reason he was in tears and he couldn't thank the Capitol enough, he really couldn't.

The Capitol ate it right out of his hands.

A nation beaten black and blue watched him as the fire within them burned to a cinder.

* * *

**A/N: I didn't mean for Shale's chapter to coincide with the Supreme Court's ruling on same-sex marriage this past week but go you, timing! Thanks for reading, as always, I can't thank you enough! And just in case you somehow haven't read Oisin55's The Victors Project yet, I recommend that you haul ass over to his page immediately and prepare to get addicted. Read all his work, it's kind of amazing. Until next time! -Kiliflower **


	18. Eirene

Amongst the victors, some districts hold certain reputations.

It's all generalisations and the watering down of facts but when you get down to it, the truth of the matter is that it's more or less accurate – and it all goes back to the start.

A victor from 2 is cruel and blunt and vicious. But credit where credit is due, they're not unfair and if they somehow have no tributes of their own to back, if they invest time in you then you might have a winner on your hands.

On the flipside, watch the middles districts, especially 5 and 7. They're good spies and confidantes and little axe soldiers – when it suits them. But as soon as the going gets tough, the outer districts stick together or they go it alone and either way, you'll have a knife in your back because they'll be looking out for themselves. But then, can you blame them?

There's District 12 who are universally awful and anything worthwhile that springs from the coal dust is almost always put down before it can settle. Then there are those nutty folks from 10 who either worship the animals like gods or use them in business. District 3 is full of little geniuses with brains far too big for them. And District 6… well, they were only the least tragic because of District 12 and their morphling was there before the Dark Days and it'll be there long after. All their victors bar one were fluke wins, kids who crawled out of the arena because of a series of happy accidents… if you can call it that.

And then there's District 4.

Good old District 4 with its homely charm and traditional ways. Its victors are like a typhoon, quick to anger and even quicker to agree to a drink. But what District 4 is most known for is its female victors – and not always for the right reasons.

Of course, there are the legends like Mags and Siren and many more who led the girls of District 4 through the Games with honour and dignity. And their district's victors are popular… but then, all the districts have victors that are popular in some fan-cult or another.

Not all the districts have a string of victors that lost their minds.

District 4 has this legacy to claim.

There was a girl, a long time ago, who was called at a Reaping where nobody volunteered for her.

Her name was Eirene Roper.

If it had been anyone else, the volunteer would've taken her place. But this girl was the mayor's daughter and she had taken no tesserae, she had never struggled or begged or fought to survive a single day in her life. Her father was not a particularly nice man, insisting that the beachers of District 4 stick to their 'sand clans' as he called them and not wander into town to barter seashells with the real traders. 'Send out the fish and pearls with your best businessmen and be done with it,' he would say.

His daughter paid the price.

She was dragged to the stage in hysterics, begging and pleading for somebody, anybody, to take her place. They all looked up at her helplessly, some with blank eyes like the dead fish that washed up on the shore and others with pity.

Some didn't bother hiding their glee.

The escort asked her if she could just keep it down a tad until the Reaping was over please and thank you. She recommenced the ceremony and selected the boy, another town kid with trembling knees.

But within a moment he was volunteered for and the girl let out a wail of despair as a sunny haired beacher lad called Lotus took to the stage. They got a smattering of applause and were led into the Justice Building.

Mags cornered the girl she had handpicked for volunteering that year, her nostrils flared. Stormy blue eyes met venomous green ones as Mags had to stop herself from throwing the conniving little bitch against a wall.

"You were meant to volunteer, that girl hasn't got a chance," snarled Mags.

The beacher girl crossed her arms and looked the furious victor right in the eye. "Her father is the reason half the beachers go hungry. They have water, we all have water, but the fish is for the Capitol and the restaurants. The families with no tesserae die. Maybe it's about time he shared their pain," she said with disdain.

With a resentful, acidic glare Mags turned on her heel and stalked off to the tribute train.

* * *

Noden was his usual, pragmatic self and threw an arm around his bubblehead beacher as Mags watched them leave with an expression that was nothing short of sour.

Eirene was inconsolable.

"There has to be a mistake Mags, _there has to!_" she wept.

The girl's tears fell fast from her emerald-green eyes as she pulled at her flaming red hair.

"Eat, you'll feel better," Mags offered, motioning lazily to the small feast in front of her: oranges and mangoes and pomegranates, chicken and sirloin steak and venison, wine and grape juice and just water if you didn't feel like celebrating your imminent doom.

"I'm not hungry," mumbled Eirene.

"You will be when you go into the arena… and you _will_ be going into the arena whether you like it or not. So as your mentor I'm ordering you, not asking you, to eat."

Eirene stifled her sobs as she lifted up her cutlery and began to place some cooked salmon and an assortment of vegetables onto her plate. Mags ignored the food in front of her, choosing to pour too much wine into her goblet before chugging it.

"You're a town girl, born high up, so you're good and healthy. _But_… you can still afford to put some meat on your bones before the Games. It'll be worth it if they put you in a synthetic arena like the castle from the Eleventh."

Eirene nodded as she cut into her salmon.

"Have you killed before?" Mags asked her.

The younger girl almost dropped her cutlery.

"I… no…" She was almost breathless as she struggled for words. "Of course not! My father is the mayor, how could I get away with killing somebody?!"

Mags rolled her eyes. "I never said killing a _person_. Have you ever gutted a fish? Skinned a rabbit?"

Eirene looked back at her blankly.

"_Anything?_"

The girl shook her head.

Mags pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to think. This girl was the worst since her first tribute and at least she had known how to feed herself.

"You're different from what people say," muttered Eirene.

"And what do they say about me?" Mags said with a snort.

"That you're gracious and humble and kind and strong," Eirene said quietly. She had abandoned her dinner and was chewing at her nails.

"And what do you think?"

There was a moment's pause.

"Honestly?"

"Please, drag me through the sand if you must," said Mags, unabashed.

"I think you're bossy and unladylike and a little bit mean, but…" she trailed off.

Mags raised her eyebrows. "But?"

"I trust you, I think."

Mags smiled.

"Good. But I'm the only one you trust. You don't trust Noden, you don't trust Lotus and you especially don't trust the other tributes no matter what they say," she said.

"But –" Eirene began.

"_No exceptions. _Now, let me get a look at you. Let me figure out a game plan. Gods know you're going to need one."

* * *

Mags put her hands on her hips and paced back and forth, her assortment of jewelry and accessories noisily clanging against each other as she gestured wildly.

"Why do we need a _scoring system?_ Isn't it enough to teach the tributes how to swing a sword or throw an axe or learn how to not eat poisonous berries?!" she exclaimed in a tight, shrill voice.

Noden leaned back and observed her. "Sponsors want to know what they're investing in, apparently. They're making bets, money is involved. Naturally they want to go into the Games comfortable."

Mags collapsed onto a plush, velvet couch and sulked. "Shut up. I hate it when you talk sense."

She looked across at the television mounted on the wall and looked at the tributes betting odds. The bookies always started early, it got people in the mood for the Games and right now Eirene's face was looking forlorn and wistful but nonetheless beautiful next to a nice shiny 11-1. Not bad numbers, but unfortunately she was at the bottom of the her ally list and even behind the primitive-looking young man with a dark glint in his eye that hailed from District 10.

"Come up with a plan for your girl yet?" Noden asked her airily.

Mags looked at her old mentor and tapped her nose. "I may be out of the arena but I'm not done with the Games, Denny. Eirene has something up her sleeve," she said snidely.

"And that is?"

Mags threw her hands up in the air. "I have no idea! I should've said she _has _to have something up her sleeve… anything! She can't hunt, she can't gather, she probably couldn't kill a fly if it sat in her palm… I told her to focus on the survival stations but not alienate herself from the pack. I'm scared for her."

Noden sat up a little bit straighter. "That reminds me, I have a message from Lotus. He asked me to tell you directly."

"What is it?" Mags asked, heaving her body up from the couch.

"He told me to tell you…" Noden hesitated.

"_What?_"

Noden sighed.

"Eirene is out of the alliance. Not officially, but the others don't want her in there. They say she's soppy and clumsy… a weakling. The brutes from 2 are planning to cut her down after the Bloodbath. He told me to tell you so you can warn her to get way from the Cornucopia before they eviscerate her."

Mags felt like her stomach was filled with lead.

"Gods bless your boy, Denny."

She crossed the room to the mini-bar to pour herself more wine.

* * *

Eirene scored a seven.

It was a solid, surprising, survivable seven for showing off her thorough knowledge of all the survival skills they had on offer – snares, edible plants and insects, traps, camouflage… the works. Eirene seemed flabbergasted as Mags wrapped an arm around the red-head and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

On her way in to prep Eirene on her interview angle, the escort was over the moon and said the girl needed no help on the front of formalities and public speaking.

"Of course not," snapped Mags, "She's the daughter of a mayor, she grew up learning what you just taught her."

The escort's expression changed quick as a flash and she stuck her nose up in the air and with a sniff tottered off in outrageous, luminous heels.

Eirene was waiting for her, still dressed in a frilly pink frock with too many collars and a ridiculous corset. Mags let out a bark of laughter that Eirene couldn't help but return.

"You look like a sheep herder's wife on her wedding day," snorted Mags as Eirene buried her face in her hands. "No matter, I've figured out your angle."

"What is it?" asked Eirene, her green eyes big and curious.

"You play it like you can't believe how lucky you are to be here – the Reaping was just a shock and you were upset because you realized how far away your father would be from the Capitol. Talk about him, your family, District 4. Make yourself personable, open and emotionally available. Let them _undertstand _you," said Mags.

"But I'm not that interesting," Eirene told her softly.

"Then invent something and I'll sort it out later. Just make sure that you're remembered, there's been too many moody, insufferable victors-to-be up on that stage and the Capitol are sick of them. Yes, that includes me," Mags said, upon seeing the girl's indignant expression.

"OK. I'll try."

The interviews were that night and brought out the true colours of the tributes as Mags watched keenly and sussed out the competition. District 1 was stronger than they'd ever been with two eloquent tributes that kept the conversation alive with sauciness and cheekiness. District 2 was brutal as ever. The boy from District 3 didn't say a word throughout his entire interview.

"Is your boy shy for a reason, Caleb?" Mags asked the scrawny young man next to her.

The normally quiet victor turned to her with a rotten expression on his face. "He has no tongue Mags, if you can imagine."

Mags didn't pursue the subject.

Lotus went down a storm with the audience. He flexed his muscles, made jokes and was the prancing piranha that the Capitol wanted him to be. Mags pursed her lips as he described the different kind of girls and lovers back in District 4. If it hadn't been for his life-saving advice for his counterpart, Mags would be rolling her eyes right now, district loyalty or no.

Eirene is up next, demure and a timeless beauty in her turquoise chiffon gown and pearls as she takes her seat. She flashes a pearly-white smile out at the Capitol audience and she can feel their love emanate out toward her.

Mags can barely breathe throughout the entire interview but the girl does everything perfectly. She says that her tears at the Reaping were tears meant for her father and then she makes an impassioned speech as her daddy's girl and even manages to quip in a self-deprecating joke about how spoiled and pampered she is and there probably won't be lipstick in the arena, will there?

"I don't think so, dear," chortles Cicero.

After a minute or two of chatter Eirene elegantly and vividly describing District 4 in all its charm and beauty before gliding back to her seat.

Mags can see the bloodhounds from 2 exchange significant, dark looks. She discretely looks over at Shale and Marcus who are whispering fervently to each other and she's no lip reader but from spending six years in the Mentoring Headquarters Mags knows the word 'bloodbath' when she sees it.

The rest of the interviews pass by with the boys from 6 and both tributes from 9 making lasting impressions. The lad from 10 is a disappointment, grunting and sneering through his interview for the most part. Mags logs a mental note of the stand outs and when everything is wrapped up in the studio she gets up without a word and goes to meet her girl.

"You did a fantastic job," Mags says to her.

Eirene smiles, her first genuine smile since her arrival Mags thinks, but the moment is ruined by the passing bandwagon that is District 2.

"See you tomorrow, Eirene," says the dark-haired girl.

"Get some sleep, you'll need it," the boy with the buzz cut and the split lip calls out before getting a clip around the ear from Marcus.

Mags waits until they're well out of earshot before she speaks again.

"I have something to tell you. There's been a change of plan."

* * *

The pedestals rise up into the arena and through the fog and jagging rocks, tributes and viewers alike have to squint to see the Cornucopia.

Something is wrong, Mags thinks. The structure is there, and there are supplies spilling out of the Cornucopia, so why do the tributes look so disheartened?

And then the cameras zoom in and everything becomes clear.

There are only two weapons in the horn of Cornucopia this year: spears and slabs of rock and stone that must be used to beat each other's skulls in with and nothing else. The past few arenas have been artistic and imaginative and jolly good fun for the Gamemakers but now the Capitol wants to see blood and brains again.

Just like the good old days.

Luckily there are an ample amount of backpacks scattered higgledy-piggledy around the place and it is one of these - a nice, plump orange one - that Eirene snatches up before disappearing completely within the first two minutes. Mags clutches to her desk and lets out a sigh of relief as her girl makes it through the original bloodshed safe and sound... albeit a runaway.

Her dissent seems to upset a select few and the rest of the alliance corner Lotus.

There's a clash of spears and the alliance is cut in half, the girls from 1 and 2 both clutching at the punctures in their throats as their district partners eye up their opponent carefully.

Lotus runs, grabbing a small backpack while he still can.

The cannons sound, marking six deaths. It's an all-time low for the start of the Games.

"Looks like the alliance is over," Noden says aloud to nobody in particular.

"Speak for yourself," Shale's voice calls back as he scrolled through potential sponsor gifts on the screen in front of him.

Grainne ties her hair up and goes to make a phone call as she watches her male tribute stumble away from the bloodbath nursing a shallow wound. "I've got a feeling these Games are going to be longer and shittier than usual," she says.

Mags doesn't tear her eyes away from the screen as she watches Eirene run from the chaos around her.

* * *

The arena that year was a bare expansion of razor-sharp rocks and caverns. Deep within the caverns, small water reservoirs could be found but not without facing the risk of deadly bat muttations that secreted venom from their wings or just did a good, old-fashioned fly-and-feast. Two weeks in they devoured the boy from 10 as he stumbled into a cave to escape the pouring rain that the Gamemakers had sent in order to avoid a repeat of last year's dehydration-fest.

The remaining Career boys packed up what they had at the Cornucopia and eventually abandoned it. There were no supplies there and they decided to go on an extended tribute hunt.

The boy from 6 had taken shelter under a small crop of rocks at the eastern part of the arena and he clung to his spear, alert and listening but never leaving his comfort area and he very slowly began to die of thirst.

Grainne's tributes stuck together until the fourth day where the ground seemed to split open upon command and the girl was swallowed up, falling into the abyss with her arms outstretched as her screams echoed. Her district partner seemed trapped in a nightmare after, wandering around aimlessly before bumping into the hunters from 1 and 2 who cut him down briskly and decisively.

"I hate spears," said the boy from 1 distastefully, yanking the jagged weapon out of 9's gut.

Eirene, on the other hand, was doing quite well. Her backpack was full of helpful supplies: water, beef jerky and crackers - she even wielded a small knife and held it gingerly and sheepishly in her hand as if it was some bizarre ancient rune.

"Does your girl even know how to use that, Mags?" Jasmia asked her.

"Why don't we wait and find out," Mags told her.

She watched as Eirene pulled her trouser leg up and tied the knife to her leg with a small piece of rope. A perfect hiding spot and an enemy would be none the wiser.

Eirene moved around frequently, changing camp often as the cannons rang and the faces appeared in the sky. She shed a tear after Lotus' face appeared and then composed herself, setting up a trap at the base of her camp to keep intruders away. Mags sent her a cracker as encouragement.

The numbers whittled down. Eirene was lucky and made it to the final three without killing a single tribute.

Then her luck ran out.

The Gamemakers did their dirty work and drove the tributes together and Eirene met the two boys from 1 and 2 at the battlefront in an open clearing of gravel and stone. But they were more animal than human now: barely clothed, covered in dried blood and dirt, their hair unruly as they clung to their spears.

The pair of them circled Eirene like vultures.

"She's a pretty one," said the boy from 2 with a lick of his lips.

"I ain't had a pretty girl in a really long time," said 1 as lust burned in his eyes.

They pounced.

The girl from 4 was pinned down and she screamed and begged them, please no, not like this, but the boys had gone insane from hunger and thirst long ago and perhaps there was no clarity and sanity to begin with but the injustice that Eirene went through in those final moments is what led her to do what she did.

Their breaths were heaving and their spears lay on the ground and the flame-haired girl kicked her legs up and pulled out her assassin's knife.

She brought it down and it pierced the flesh of the 2 boy's back and he crumpled into a heap. Eirene pushed him off her and then without hesitation her knife flew through the air and the boy from 1 fell with a scarlet smile across his throat.

Eirene wept and with wide buggy eyes she crawled into a corner against a rock, staring at the bodies of the two dead boys as her tears mingled with sweat and dust and gravel and blood.

"They had so much blood in them Mags, why was there was so much blood!" she shrieked.

The trumpets rang and Eirene jumped like a bolt of electricity had passed through her and she tried to crawl away from the sound on her hands and knees.

She failed and pressed her palms against her ears and began to rock back and forth.

"What is it?! Don't make them come for me, Mags, please, please no!" she screamed.

As a hovercraft descended, Eirene tried to run but she was too weak and frail from her weeks in the arena to make it far.

"No… no… please, no…"

Eirene Roper was lifted up and out of the arena to safety and her new home.

Far away, her mentor watched helplessly as District 4's legacy began.


	19. Glamour

Glamour Levesque looked out across the square and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

_Come on, Glam, you can do this. _

The People's Prince, as the Capitolian tabloids had seen fit to name him, had the face of a cherub, his wavy blonde locks were glossy and glorious and his bright blue eyes seemed full of optimism and determination.

For this momentous occasion, his first Reaping as a victor, he wore a tweed suit. For good measure he also had an expensive cream from the Capitol in his hair and he could've sworn his shoes were so well polished they were shining brighter than the sun.

None of it made him feel any better.

The place where they were holding the Reaping was too much like Glamour's arena – its design an idyllic market town, akin to a small hubbub shopping street on the more bohemian side of the Capitol, where all the musicians and philosophers and burgeoning artists lived.

Yet this arena was anything but, with enormous vermin lurking around each and every corner. When the tributes weren't fending off colossal rats and roaches, they were fleeing from the toxic gas that crept from the gutters and made their skin burst out in blisters or stripped the flesh from their bones. Even the water wasn't safe to drink, as Glamour's district partner learned the hard way.

Glamour complimented Jasmia on her dress as he sat down next to her, his eyes focused firmly on the reaping bowl containing the boys' names and not on the cobblestones or the graceful arches that had long since lost their sentimentality.

Peridot and Linon arrived next, the former jubilant and in good spirits and the latter sober and solemn. Perry gave Glamour a wink and Glam returned it with a sort of awkward wave.

The other District 1 mentors despised the man, Linon especially, but Perry had been Glamour's saviour through the Games. While the other victors had been talking him up without much progress, Peridot had been snagging the cash and doling it out appropriately.

Yes, Perry had tried to be diplomatic but it didn't seem to be working and now Glam was at a loss as to his niche in the circle.

It seemed you were either Team Peridot or Team Murk.

The mayor informed them that they were ready to go and Glamour gave a tight nod. Jasmia grunted.

Their escort was Peridot's latest belle, a prominent socialite from the Capitol and an heiress to boot. It was her first year and Glamour was glad because at least he wasn't the only one with the potential to fuck up, which this girl did. She got all the important Capitol manifestos and rules right but read the girl's name first.

Looks like the rest of the districts will have to follow suit, Glamour thinks with a small smile.

There was a momentary confusion but once all was clear, the tribute girl walked up, though not in the usual jittery way of those first selected. Nonetheless, she was instantly replaced by a volunteer named Juvette.

Jasmia got her way that year. The corners of her lips twitched, suppressing a smile as her murk girl took her place. Glamour watched her, attempting to convey just the right amount of surprise and admiration for the cameras.

Then it was the boys' turn.

Glamour's stomach was in knots and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. It was more nerve-wracking, he thought, this business of waiting, than actually competing, he reckoned.

At least then you were only doing it for yourself.

"Keep it together, newbie," Jasmia whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

The boy they called up was eighteen and tall and from the business side of 1. But it was clear he was meant for magnifiers and carat-counting, not the Games. He shook and stuttered until the escort officially asked for volunteers.

That was when Rubyn _finally_ stepped up.

Glamour felt his muscles relax.

It was an alien feeling to be mentoring someone a couple of months younger than you,Glamour thought. The boy was the same age as the one he replaced but that was about it when it came to similarities.

Rubyn had thrown aside the iconic District 1 charm in favour of steely, removed smiles and brisk, half-hearted waves. His district partner seemed to think she was the second coming of her mentor. She had her arms folded and her body language read as strict and disciplinary.

She won't last long, Glamour had thought. A number of districts went for the don't-care-but-look-at-my-muscles angle during each Games and it was nothing to write home about.

The Reaping was wrapped up and the tributes brought to their farewells. Glamour got up to go into the Justice Building when he felt a hand wrap around his wrist. Sharp nails dig into his suit and he spun around, his teeth bared, before he realised where he was.

He relaxed his attack stance. "Sorry, forgot."

"Train," said Jasmia without comment.

Glamour followed the young woman. He chose not to comment on how she hadn't mastered the art of heels or that she muttered to herself occasionally. She was a bit mad, everyone knew that, but she hadn't _lost it _lost it. Not in the way that the most recent victor from 4 had. Mags had to excuse herself from the Victory Ceremony to calm the poor whelp down during the recap.

They passed through the more dubious and darker part of District 1 to get to the train station. The citizens up near the Pavilion, where Glam lived, called this area The Tenements. Crime rates were soaring here and it seemed that more Peacekeepers got called in each day for some reason or another. Glamour and his friends used to go there as a dare sometimes, just to see how long it took before someone told them to get out.

Faces poked out from behind doorways and brown-tinted shutter windows, cascades of black hair hidden under worker's hats and coal-studded eyes looking at the unfamiliar sight of two Victors in their midst.

"They look so scared," Glamour said to Jasmia.

She turned her head to him a tad. "Their bodies are weary from setting the jewels for the rich. They don't want their children to be chosen for the Games. Of course they're scared."

Glam tried to change the subject. "Yes, well, they made it back from the Reaping quite quickly, eh?"

Jasmia frowned. "In the Tenements we don't stay any longer than we have to. I'm not sure what your procedure is like for those of you in the Pavilion but we treat the Reaping with more reserve."

Glamour bristled. "Actually, the Pavilion isn't a community; it's a place, so you can't just –"

"People from the Tenements, people from the Pavilion… categorizing makes things so much simpler, don't you think?"

It was hard to tell if Jasmia was being serious or sarcastic.

Maybe she _was _nuts.

On the train, after their sit-down, Rubyn proved to be astonishingly well-prepared. He had his own game-plan worked out; he informed Glamour of his plan to be the dumb but weapon-savvy team member and unleash his true talent with a short-sword when the time came.

"You do realize that there are eighteen other tributes besides yourself and your alliance," Glamour said plainly.

"They're prebies, don't worry," he said with a shrug.

"They're _what_?" Glamour said with a snort.

"Prebies – short for pre-cannon. It's what some of us at the…" He looked around him. "…at school call the districts that never make it past the Bloodbath. They die before the cannons sound at the Cornucopia."

"That includes your alliance, you know. Remember Eirene's year? Jasmia ended her own alliance early too, so don't forget about that. History can repeat itself, so forget this 'prebies' nonsense and roll with the punches," Glamour told Rubyn. "It might save your life."

Rubyn looked him in the eye and agreed.

It was obvious his heart wasn't in it.

The four of them, mentors and tributes, got together for the Reaping recap that night. District 1 was outshone by its allies who all proved to be contenders; District 2 threw out the usual slices of honed fitness freaks, though the girl had a glint in her eye that suggested she had no intentions of losing.

It seemed like District 4 had put in serious work to remove the loopy brush they'd been tarnished with since Eirene had been dragged out of the arena wailing about rocks and teeth.

Jasmia patted her girl on the shoulder as if to warn her: these are the ones to beat.

The outlying districts didn't produce much worth commenting on, bar the little lad from 3 who vomited down his front when his name was called and the girl from 7 who had to walk up to the stage while a man screamed at her.

"What's he saying?" Rubyn asked. "I can't make it out."

"He's calling her a 'barren whore' and don't ask me what it means. Now be quiet," Jasmia said.

Rubyn didn't say another word and Glam was grateful.

The Reaping concluded with a surly, tight-fisted young man from 11 and a crying pair from 12 – what else – before Glamour and Jasmia sent their tributes off to bed.

Glamour took the liberty of pouring Jasmia and himself some scotch.

Surprisingly, Jasmia declined.

"Not while I'm mentoring."

Glamour shrugged and took a swig. Jasmia scrutinised him with judgemental eyes.

"You normally wait until after."

"After what?" Glamour asked.

Jasmia gave him a pitying look. "Never mind… so, the tributes – thoughts?"

"Apart from our alliance, nobody seems a threat. District 11 looks like he could be a trifle, possibly put up a struggle but other than that, nothing."

Glam was shocked to see his fellow mentor throw back her head and laugh. "You're developing so slowly at this. Were you watching the same Reaping I was? Read between the lines, Levesque."

She began to slowly count on her fingers.

"We have the rest of the alliance. You entirely missed the boy from 5 smirking just before the cameras pulled away – he has something planned. The girl from 7 who got jeered at was seething. She'll bring that anger into the arena with her. The pair from 9 clearly knows one another and if Grainne is as smart as I think she is she's going to use that to their advantage."

Glamour stared blankly at her.

"I'm afraid it's just two out of five this time, blondie," she said. "The Games aren't over yet."

Glam nodded and bade her good night.

He didn't get much sleep.

The next day was Glamour's first time in the Capitol since his Victory Ceremony and while Rubyn lapped it up, Glam flinched as camera lights burst out and the fans screamed his name in the streets.

Rubyn gave an exasperated and audible 'ugh' as he lavished attention on women (and men) that passed by, remarking on their beautiful horse-hair skirts and fabulous neon lace-stripped leather boots and my goodness, where did you find a hat to match it?

"You can count on my sponsorship, Glamour!" trilled a young Capitol woman as she tottered away giggling excitedly to her friends.

"That's how you do it," said Rubyn with a smirk.

"I guarantee you she's going home to ask for her Daddy's pocket money," said Glamour sourly. He was beginning to like this kid less and less. "Come on; let's get you to your stylist."

The prep team were barely with Rubyn an hour. Apparently he was so close to being flawless that they'd set themselves an all-time record for getting a tribute ready – as if such a record needed to exist.

"We thought we'd gotten as far as we could with you, Glam – can we call you Glam, oh fabulous – but your tribute this year is simply _divine_, he beat your record by eighteen seconds, Mercuria counted!"

A woman with a row of cerulean peacock quills sprouting from her shoulder blades nodded fervently.

Glamour forced a smile.

"How wonderful to hear," he said, hoping the sourness in his voice wasn't too evident.

That night when Glamour felt a presence at his back, he turned around to find Rubyn standing over him with raised eyebrows and tight lips.

"Yes, tribute?" Glamour said innocently.

Rubyn glared. "Well, _mentor_, training is tomorrow and you haven't given me advice. What should I do?"

Oh shit.

Glamour tried to make something up on the spot.

"Try not to show what you're good at too much until your private sessions. Survival skills are always a good bet in case they pull out another drastic arena. What do you fight with?"

"A short-sword, I already told you," he snapped.

"Fabulous. An hour with a short-sword a day keeps District 12 away. Mix that with different stations, soldier. And get to know your alliance, that saved my life last year when the boy from 2 got bored and started to swing something sharp around," Glamour said as he threw back another scotch.

Rubyn wrinkled his nose. "You're drunk."

"Incorrect, I'm _tipsy_. Goodnight Rubyn."

The boy skulked off to bed moodily, making sure to slam his door and Glamour sunk back into the couch and finished off his bottle of scotch. He never got to come to the Capitol and fuck it he deserved to relax after… after…

After everything.

He wasn't so calm when he found out Rubyn was reporting to Jasmia about training.

"This is fucking ridiculous! Why is he going to _you_, I am his assigned mentor!" Glamour spit.

He wished that he wasn't whining so much but the hangover was splitting his skull.

Jasmia gave him her usual scornful look.

"Rubyn is unhappy with your mentoring style. Unless you can cut down on your drinking and focus on your leadership, you have no place to guide that boy through the arena. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sponsor meeting."

She left Glamour there, open-mouthed and without a rebuttal and wondering what a sponsor meeting was and how did you organize one.

Glamour played nice and didn't drink in for the rest of training and he and Rubyn remained civil, though the latter remained cautious and unpredictable. He often tested Glam's patience and the older man had to bite his tongue on multiple occasions in order to keep the peace.

The bright, shiny '9' that Rubyn earned from the Gamemakers made it all worth it.

Glamour went to S-T-Y-X Nightclub that night to celebrate and obliterated his mind with drink and snorted so many lines of dreamdust that he could see things that weren't there, but they were _so real_ and he wanted to touch them but the laughter and the music was in his veins and he wanted to dance but the lions and fairies and colours in front of him beckoned.

The rhythm was in his skull.

All the colours were floating around.

Purple and blue and pink and red.

Hands on waist.

Lips. Tongue. Wet. Who? Who…

Bathroom.

Toilet. Vomit.

Bed.

He woke up the next day with ice-cold water poured over his head.

"Interviews are today," said Jasmia as she glowered over him, jug in hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Glamour spluttered.

She said nothing as she stomped away.

Rubyn and Juvette's slender frames quickly disappeared from the doorframe and Glamour groaned.

Coaching his tribute through what he had to do and say while feeling the throbbing in his temples and the churning in his stomach was one of the most laborious and mind-numbingly arduous tasks that Glamour ever had to sit through. He'd rather take on one of those mutated cockroaches again.

"Just talk to Cicero like he's one of your friends back home," said Glamour for what felt like the fifteenth time.

"No, that doesn't fit with how I was at the Reaping," snarled Rubyn.

"I am your mentor, I tell you what to do!" snapped Glam.

"And I am the one going into that arena and I know what works for me!"

"You know what, you're right. You're perfect, I'm a has-been, and you know it all. So we're done here. Good luck," said Glamour, knocking over his chair for good measure as he stormed out of the interview prep room.

Upon his return to the Training Centre, Glamour decided he was done for the day.

"Get me a sedative," he shouted at an avox who returned with a small red pill that sent him to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

He awoke a day later with Jasmia standing over him.

"We need to stop meeting like this this," grumbled Glamour as he rubbed his eyes.

He felt groggy and a little bit numb but otherwise well-rested, more so than he had in weeks.

"The tributes are in the Catacombs. I brought Rubyn and Juvette down to be transported this morning, I thought you should know. The Games start in five minutes."

Glamour had never gotten dressed as fast in his life.

Like lightning he burst into the Mentoring Headquarters with his shirt buttoned wrong and his pants unbuckled and his shoes on the wrong feet. His looks would've garnered amusement if the atmosphere wasn't rife with worry and stress.

"Sit your ass down, newbie," said Jasmia.

"Well you look like shit," said Murray stonily.

Glamour would've flipped him the bird if it wasn't for the sheer size of the man.

"They're out of the 'combs!" yelled one of the 2 victors.

The arena was a forest, the biggest one yet in the history of the Games. Mountains loomed ahead in the distance and though the tributes couldn't see it, a beautiful blue lake sat crystalline and shimmering at the far end of the landscape.

A few of the victors sat up a little straighter. These arenas they had personal experience with.

This they could do.

Glamour, on the other hand, yelped and scrambled over to his mentoring station, threw himself into his chair with unnecessary force and looked across at what was in front of him.

The computer in front of him instructed him that with just a few clicks he could have a menu open in front of him with categories and sub-categories of weapons, food and items that he could send to his tribute, with the appropriate pricing included.

In a small corner was a live feed of Rubyn as well as his position in the arena. All of his biological vitals; his heartbeat, breathing, adrenaline levels and so on so forth were on display, as well as his tribute profile photo that still listed him as 'alive'.

For now.

Glamour went to look at his sponsor money and did a double take.

There was nothing.

Blank. Empty. Useless.

"Where's all his sponsor money?"

Nobody answered him.

"We had pledges, _I swear we had sponsors!_" Glamour screeched, starting to panic.

The other Victors were looking now.

For the first time, Jasmia was embarrassed.

"Didn't you secure the pledge and transfer the money?" Jasmia asked Glamour.

She was trying not to look at him.

Fifteen seconds.

"No! How would I know that, you didn't say – Perry didn't say –"

On the main screen, the tributes all tensed in preparation.

"Jasmia, what can I do, how do I help him, can you watch him for me while I sort this out?!"

Five seconds.

"Please, I didn't mean for this to happen! If he dies it's my fault!"

Three seconds.

"_Jasmia!_"

Far away, in dark and dangerous woodland, The Hunger Games began once more.

* * *

**A/N: I feel like the Careers are often seen as these almighty mentor creatures and I thought it could be interesting to explore a career tribute that is just a bit of a useless mentor. That, along with my craving for more District 1 backstory, led to the birth of Glamour. I had major writers block with this chapter which is why it took so long, sorry about that~ As always, thanks so much for reading and don't forget to leave a review! **

**-Kiliflower**


	20. Ashling

The tension was thick in the Mentoring Headquarters.

It was strange to experience and even more difficult to describe – the constant apprehension, the incessant alertness and fidgeting, even the mild spice of rivalry that bubbled beneath the surface made the Games a turbulent and testing time for everyone.

The room itself was expansive but totally chrome and one-note, allowing for no distractions during the more heated and fast-paced moments of the Games.

In the middle of the headquarters – or HQ for short – was an enormous plasma television screen, presently showing a live feed of an army of flesh-eating spiders feasting on the carcass of a young man.

Across the room, Simmone rose from her station. She pulled her earth-toned shawl to her and tried to hide her evident fury. In the end she managed to not scream out of sheer willpower and began to pack her things away into a quaint, beaded bag without kicking up too much of a fuss.

The boy from 11's face flickered from the main screen for a moment, before reappearing in neutral colours that signified that he was out of the running.

"Four more cannons," Shale informed them matter-of-factly.

"Oh shut up Cotter," snapped Mags as she tried to figure out whether to send food or medicine to her tribute.

Indeed, the ordinarily banal woodland arena proved to be extraordinarily testing this year. With surprisingly little survival supplies provided at the Cornucopia, the Career alliance had resorted to plundering and scouring the woods for food instead of tributes for more than half of the competition.

The tributes who had managed to get away from the initial Bloodbath had, for the most part, wasted away. They had little to eat but berries and tree bark and their only source of water remained largely unnoticed and too far a trek to be worth considering by those who spotted it from the trees.

Many of the non-bloodbath deaths this year had been from hunger or thirst. The shaking boy from 3, the pretty girl from 6, the promising pair from 9, the cheeky lad from 10 – all wasted away in front of their eyes.

The boy from 1 had it worst. Glamour had been completely unable to help the lad as he slowly starved to death.

His district partner put him out of his misery as he slept.

It took three security guards and a medical professional to calm Glamour down afterwards. The newest victor needed to be enticed by sedatives to make it out of HQ without destroying anything.

The dull, bloodless deaths had proved to be disconcerting for the public. Apparently starvation was not 'in' this season and the people wanted to see something more grisly and macabre. That's when the outpouring of mutts happened and the majority of the Career alliance as well as a handful of outliers got taken down.

Luckily, Thorne's girl had the sense to scramble up a tree before shooting a few of them down. She'd proven to be astonishingly capable and resourceful for a girl who'd just taken up weaponry.

With a quick mind and a bit of common sense, Ashling had reminded the Capitol just exactly what District 7 was made of.

Or so the pundits had said.

"Who have we got left again?" asked Romulus.

It was a brash, uncivilized, childish attempt at raising the other victors to an argument but none of them were foolish enough to take the bait.

As always, Mags was the first one to answer.

"My kid, your steroid stars and the boy from 5. Oh, and the girl from 7. The one who played victim at the interviews," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Across the room, Thorne didn't waver. He knew how these silly little games worked and he refused to play along. He had one job right now and he was so close to succeeding. He felt it in his gut.

For the first time in a long time, he was daring to hope.

He could bring her home.

Thorne looked at the plasma screen that was sub-divided into five camera shots of each of the living tributes.

The pair from 2 was searching the mountain for the remaining tributes but at the moment had stopped for a rest. They were the strongest of the lot but shadows of their former selves, hollowed out by lack of nutrition. Hunger had chewed them up and spit them out again and it didn't look pretty. The boy sat on a rock and lazily sharpened his knife as the girl watched him with a vacant look in her eyes.

The boy from 5 was doing well, much better than anyone from his district had done before. He was currently refilling his water supply into his small canteen and his eyes burnt with determination and gusto. He had a perky, rapid energy about him and his heel was always fixed as if he was ready to dash away.

Mags' girl was in a bad state. Wounded after abandoning her allies and lost in the woods, she had managed to find a temporary hiding spot amongst the ferns and was trying to stifle the blood flowing from her side with clumps of moss. She groaned softly but didn't let go of her spear.

Thorne looked at his girl last, hoping the situation hadn't gotten too dire.

Ashling lay in the nook of a tree with her longbow and beautifully crafted arrows. Her chocolate-brown doe eyes, usually so warm and animated, were blank and unfocused, her light brown hair and olive skin drenched with sweat.

Her breath came sharp and quick. Beneath her three mutts stared lifelessly ahead with arrows in their throats.

Thorne clenched his fists.

"So Thorne, tell us about this place that your girl was on about, she didn't elaborate too much," said Romulus. "I'm curious and the Games seem to be at a standstill. I'm bored."

"She was talking about an all-female disciplinary school back in District 7. That's all I know," he said gruffly.

Romulus snorted but didn't comment any further.

The man from 7 had lied, but only to protect his tribute.

Thorne knew all about the Barren, a fortification of shame and solitude that existed deep within the forests of his home district.

Across District 7 it was known by many names: The Barren, The Fort of the Fruitless, The Cradle. It appeared to be dignified and reputable, isolated from society. It claimed to be a place of calm and stillness, its front doors bearing the etching of a harmless ewe.

Yet the horror stories that emerged from that place would keep someone awake at night.

Everyone had heard about them: the women and girls confined and beaten and forced to labour because they couldn't produce children, or because they'd birthed out of wedlock, or just because they weren't particularly holistic or pious.

In District 7, if you hated someone enough, you got them sent to the Barren.

That was where Ashling Mulderrig had come from.

She had told Thorne that she wanted someone to know her story before she died and he had stayed up with her all night the day before the Games. She had told how she had been forced to marry by her father and on the night of her wedding and for weeks after, she had been unfit to produce children no matter how many times she and the lumberjack twice her age had tried.

Humiliated by his fruitless daughter, Ashling's father had sent her away to the Barren. She had begged him not to, anywhere but there, but despite her mother's protestations and her little sister's tears and the sour expressions worn by their friends he did not change his mind.

She was there for a year before the Reaping.

"What was it like?" Thorne had asked her.

She had paused, weighing her words.

"Grey."

Thorne didn't question her. He understood.

Yes, she was a scorned woman of the Barren but nevertheless, she was still eligible as a tribute, and the Matrons of the Barren – strict-looking women dressed head to toe in grey – ensured that she and the other young girls made the trip to the town each year for the Reaping.

Her name was read out by a simpering man in pearls and scales.

The Matrons smiled. The cameras didn't follow them.

The crowd recognised her bland, dishwater clothes associated with the Fort of the Fruitless.

They had called her a barren whore.

Her expression never changed.

"From one hell to another," she had told Thorne, her soft features contrasted with a dark expression.

He looked at her now, alone in the Games, exhausted and starving, but alive.

Barely.

A cannon boomed. Thorne's stupor dissolved and he swore aloud to himself, annoyed for having drifted away for so long.

The girl from 4 had bled out, unable to hold her insides in. Her arm fell limply at her side as she sat in a pool of her own blood and Mags went out of her way to knock her chair over before storming out with a bellow of unadulterated rage.

"Three cannons to go."

"Shut _up_ Shale."

An argument began to break out between Shale and another victor but it was interrupted by the sound of trumpets and the flamboyant, outrageous accusations and colourful use of violent language dissipated almost immediately in placement of cries of surprise.

Thorne's face was aged and wrinkled by years of sleepless nights and booze-fests in his twenties but his emerald-green eyes were as keen as emotive as ever as he scanned the screen for his girl.

Ashling was there, still nestled in her tree, when they made the announcement.

She tilted her head upward, looking as confused as Thorne felt.

"What's a feast?" asked the District 5 delegate, panic etched all over his face.

He was met with silence as the helpless mentors watched their tributes listen to the booming voice that invited them to attend a 'feast' – an open offering of food and water and supplies located at the Cornucopia.

The sole District 7 victor double checked his sponsor bank.

Shit.

He had nothing to send her. He had used all his money to send her the longbow and arrows that she had become so accustomed to in training.

Thorne fixed his eyes on the girl, willing her not to go.

It was a trap.

The wisp of a girl crouched forward into a protective ball and in one rushed motion, swung her body forwards. She fell sideways out of the trees, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

For a long time she didn't move.

Thorne watched and waited with his heart racing.

Then she moved one arm, slowly, and then the other, and pulled herself up. Blood gushed down her face from a broken nose but she traipsed ahead, gathering speed and stopping only to drink water from her small canteen.

"Your girl has guts, Thorne," said Romulus.

"She does," he replied, sounding more confident than he felt.

"Perhaps our two will cut them out for us all to see," the brute from 2 said, thumping the table as he roared with laughter.

Thorne's mouth thinned but he said nothing.

As Ashling stumbled towards the Cornucopia, so did her competitors. The boy from District 5 tore briskly through the woods, avoiding the spider dens and traps that he'd become familiar with on his first trip to the lake. Thorne silently cursed the child under his breath and instantly felt ashamed.

The tributes from 2 spent the long walk in silence. The boy sulked and the girl scowled, their jutting bones emphasized by the rancid expressions they wore.

The size of the arena meant that the trip lasted almost a day for the tributes. The tributes from District 2 were the first to show up and the pedestal containing platters of luscious fruit and crisp, warm bread and clear, sparkling water proved too enticing a bounty to resist. They burst into relieved smiles and ran forwards to claim their prize.

Their joy was short-lived.

"The water is mine!" the girl said as she shoved the boy away from her and began to gulp down the entire bottle.

She gasped as her partner brought his knife through her throat.

Water and blood mingled and the boy from 2 began to shove the contents of the feast into his bag, hunger and thirst affecting him to the point of carelessness.

The boy from 5 was quietly filling his own pack with supplies, his eyes never leaving the behemoth who had his back to him.

"I always knew he'd fuck up when it came down to it," Romulus grunted in annoyance.

Thorne's nails were digging into his desk, he searched frantically for his girl, wondering where she was, what was she doing, why was she taking so long, the boys were taking all her food.

There was a thin whistle.

The boy from 2 looked up too late.

He fell to his knees, gasping and spluttering and grabbing at the arrow in his throat.

The boy from 5 gave a shriek and started to run.

"Stop right there!"

Ashling's voice was trembling but she didn't shake at all as she walked out onto the plain, her longbow held aloft and her fingers holding her last arrow in place. She pointed it directly at the weedy, clever boy from 5 who held a bag of fruit in one bony, white-knuckled hand and a bottle of water in the other.

"Please. Let me go," he said.

The girl from 7 approached him but didn't lower her bow.

"It's just the two of us now. There's no more running," she told him, her voice cracking.

Thorne was standing now and someone was yelling and trying to get him to _sit down for gods' sake _but why wasn't she shooting?!

"I'm Sammy. I'm fifteen," said District 5.

Ashling pulled back her bowstring and took aim.

The boy began to cry.

"I have two little sisters!" he begged. "My dad works in the nuclear plant back home. H-he's a researcher. My mom cooks the best bread in the district, with raisins and nuts." He was growing more erratic and desperate. "I… I want to go home to them."

The girl from the lumber district began to lower her bow, her deep brown eyes regretful and sad.

Someone was tutting in the corner.

"I was wrong, Fitzpatrick. Your girl has no spine," Romulus jeered.

The boy from 5 began to move slowly backwards and he was _fuck_ he was _getting away_.

She was letting him get away.

Then between the sound of the light winds of the arena and the distant birdsong, a gentle voice spoke.

"My name is Ashling Mulderrig. I'm sixteen years old. I come from District 7."

The girl raised her bow.

"I was a whore of The Barren."

She pulled the bowstring.

"And I refuse to die today."

Her doe eyes grew wide, her expression was frenzied and she was no longer a girl but a wild woman from the children's tales of old.

A hush covered the room as like a blanket of snow on the meadow.

The arrow flew.


	21. Brandon

"Run you asshole!"

I hoot with laughter in between pants of exertion as I tear along the dusty streets of my home district, my best friend in pursuit. I can hear his footsteps not far behind and I know he's gaining on me.

"Farmer fucker!" he calls after me.

I grin. He's trying to annoy me, get me to slow down. Like that's going to happen.

Not rising to the bait, I turn a corner into the shanty town abandoned after the war and begin to scale the roof, nimble and quick as a sand snake. My hands and feet work together in perfect synchronization as I climb the roof.

"Come back down to the ground, you gutless bastard!"

With a deep belly laugh I motion for him to follow me.

He does.

I watch him climb. He's good, but not nearly as fast or adept at it as I am. He has the brawn and the looks, sure, but I have the wiriness and brains.

We make a perfect pair.

When he finally joins me, he throws his arm around me and pulls me into a headlock. I fake a splutter of pain – _patronizing _really – and beg for him to let me go, this isn't the Games, why is he being so cruel.

He lets me go and shoves me away from him.

"Chicken shit."

He looks out at the expanse of District 9. The place we call home.

It could be beautiful, really, with its vast green and golden fields of wheat and grain, its soft soil and quaint, homely mills. Even the towns are alright to look at; there's the main market where you can buy and sell milk and bread and other goods and on a good, sunny day – which is most days here – there'll always be chatter and gossip and you'll always see someone you know.

Most of the people in 9 live huddled up in small flats and apartments close to the hubbub. Then there are the uneducated, laboring farmers who live way out and nobody sees them except for at the Reaping and they show up in nothing but overalls and shoes woven out of straw, their skin burnt to a crisp from too many days spent in the sun.

They make me glad I'm one of the town-folk.

I look out at the sun that's just beginning to set and rest my arms on my knees, taking it all in.

"Today was a good day."

My best friend looks at me as if two pieces of corn just sprouted from my head.

"_Today?_"

"Sure."

Brandon laughs, his signature shrill bark. It makes me wince but I don't tell him how annoying it is. Not all the time, anyway.

"How was it a good day? The girl from 7 came to pretend she felt sorry about a couple of dead kids."

I punch Brandon's arm. "Don't act like you wouldn't still give it to her."

He shrugs. "She's alright. I don't like how she can be so fuckin' sullen one minute and then so… so… ugh, what's the word?"

"Dunno."

"Bale, you said it yesterday."

"Oh. Cordial," I say with a rush of pride.

"Yeah, that. Fancy and shit."

I snort. Brandon's not the most eloquent.

"Anyway, you were saying? Good day…?"

"Right," I continue. "I was just thinking, while 7 was droning on, how fuckin' _lucky_ we are, you know?"

Brandon stares at me again. It's weird.

"Lucky?"

"Yeah. I mean, we don't take tesserae. After the next Reaping, you have your job at the Peacekeepers and I'm going to be working in the Justice Building. Life plan, brother."

"I guess," he says slowly.

"I know," I say brightly.

"Unless one of us is reaped."

"In which case I'm not volunteering for your sorry ass," I jibe, punching his shoulder again.

There's a moment's silence.

"You always have to ruin the joke, you shit," he mutters.

His mood has gone surly and sour now. I can tell that he's annoyed because he's given up the boyish, adolescent façade that he usually puts on.

Normally he could get any girl in the district, with tanned skin, curious blue eyes, auburn hair and a healed broken nose that suggests a man who'll put up a fight. But now all I see is a sulking loser where my best friend used to be.

"Come on Brandon," I say, flashing a toothy smile. "The Reaping isn't for a long time yet. Relax, you'll be fine."

I give my cheesy, toothy smile.

Works every time.

I stand up and stretch.

"So, what do you think the odds are of me making it to that old grain mill by the Wishing River before you do, muscles?"

Brandon's furrowed brow relaxes and he smiles. He's back on my side.

"What's in it for me?"

I roll my eyes. "I won't jump you for talking to my sister at the party after the Reaping."

He reaches out his hand.

"Deal."

I leap and get a head start.

Brandon swears above me and clambers down while I'm on my way.

"You cheat!" he screams.

I laugh all the way to the river.

* * *

It's the day of the Reaping and both town-folk and laborers are in the eighteen-year-old section. I eye the angry young men and apprehensive women in their overalls and tattered blouses warily.

Brandon ignores them in favor of chatting up a girl from school who he's been after for years.

The Capitol escort this year is the same as it has been for years. It's Persephone Twyblossom, the daughter of the famous and incomprehensibly friendly Master of Ceremonies, Cicero Twyblossom. She used to do television hosting, at least that's what my mother told me, but scrapped that after an incident with a victor from 10 years and years ago.

She's one of the escorts who attempts to connect with the district she's assigned to and has gone to the effort of assembling an outfit of green and yellow. I'm presuming she's trying to assimilate the bounties of our harvest but she looks more like a grotesque cross between an exotic tree and a rotten banana.

After her speech about loyalty and how incredible the Capitol is, she totters across the stage in blindingly yellow heels and picks a name out of the girl's bowl.

"Winnie Tomkins!"

The crowd parts a few rows behind me and heads instinctively turn.

"Don't look," I say to Brandon, my expression unmoved.

"Wasn't going to," he shoots back, looking straight ahead.

We have to be neutral because we both know Winnie. She's in my sister's class at school, totally harmless, kind and generous but always having to stay behind and do extra work because she says that the words are moving on the page, they won't stay still and they don't make sense.

I've heard that they have a word for it in the Capitol but I don't know what it is.

Winnie walks up to the stage. She's in a pretty white dress and clutches at her beautifully done pigtails.

She's shitting herself. Poor girl.

Persephone calls for volunteers.

As is the norm, she's met with silence.

"Lovely!" she simpers. "Now onto the boys!"

I feel my stomach turn and I steel myself and hope to the gods that it isn't me.

And then she calls a name.

Brandon Barlow.

My head snaps to my right where Brandon is looking incredulous and affronted, like there has to have been some kind of mistake.

And there has to have been.

There are twenty eighteen-year-old laborers here, he _can't _have been chosen.

"Brandon? Where are you honey?" Persephone calls.

The cameras swivel and the Peacekeepers are growing restless and all I can do is gape.

Brandon flexes his muscles and sets his jaw and steps out and he's not the Brandon I know when he walks up to that stage.

"Hello _handsome, _am I right ladies?" she titters. "Winnie, you are one lucky lady!" she says with an added wink for effect.

Winnie just whimpers some more and tries to hide her face.

"Any volunteers?"

I can see Brandon's eyes darting from person to person, looking for me. He finds me and fixes me with a dark, accusing look and I look away as I feel a disgusting sense of shame and guilt rise within me.

I say nothing. I keep quiet. I don't volunteer.

_It wasn't you. It was just the odds. _That's what I tell myself.

I'm the smart one. The brains behind the operations.

Brandon… Brandon has a chance.

Doesn't he?

The people watch him disappear into the Justice Building with Winnie and the crowd begins to disperse.

I'm so angry and bitter I shoot filthy looks and kick dust and pebbles at the labourer children out of spite.

I go to say goodbye but Brandon doesn't want to see me.

Being irrational is just an effect of being upset.

Yes. That's it.

I just wish he'd have said goodbye.

* * *

"Bale! It's the interviews, quick, come quick!"

My mother's voice is shrill and demanding and I slide off the worn mattress I share with my sister and go into the next room.

Everything about me says I'd rather not have to, but it _is _mandatory viewing.

My sister is sitting cross-legged and starry-eyed as she watches the television screen.

"Brandon looks so _handsome_, doesn't he mother?"

I mutter something distasteful about Bran's personal habits and they both snap at me to shut up.

They're right, though. Bran's scrubbed up well. He's looking dapper in a slick suit, his hair oiled back and his shoes shined. I bet all the Capitol women are going crazy for him out there. I wonder if the 8 he scored in training is good or not.

Guess we'll wait and see.

The tributes from 1, 2 and 4 are all quite meek this year. If they're trying to be discreet, they're doing too good a job at it because if _I _was a tribute I wouldn't be intimidated at all. The only standout of them is the girl from District 1 who's flirty and curvy and slender and willowy and pouty and her hair is so silky I'd love to just sweep her off my feet myself if I got the chance.

Gods, if I only had the chance.

The pair from 6 both look delirious and sickly and are gripping to the edges of their seats. I wonder if stage fright can be _that _bad, if they're nervous about the Games or if they're just ill. Huh.

Up next are the Sevens, who seem confident and sturdy and the girl has a bit of an attitude. I'd say she thinks she has it in the bag. We'll see tomorrow.

The girl from 8 is very good. She doesn't give away her game-plan but compares it to the intricacy of sewing and how you have to be masterful and mindful and watch where you place the needle or you might make yourself bleed. It's a subtle warning and the audience applaud for her even after she's sat down.

Winnie gets tearful and says hello to her friends and family and reads a poem she wrote. It's heartfelt but not very convincing from a competitive standpoint... I would imagine.

Then it's Brandon's turn and things take a surprising turn.

"Brandon Barlow, how are you this evening?"

"I'm great Cicero, a bit nervous!" he says with a smile.

"Why so nervous?" Cicero replies. "We're all pals here!"

"I'm just afraid I'm going to swear on live TV, I have an awful mouth on me."

The audience chuckles and I catch myself laughing too because that bastard swears more than anyone I know.

"So, Brandon –"

"Call me Bran."

"Alright, Bran, what do you think of your competitors?" Cicero asks him.

Brandon seems to consider the question and shrugs. "Well, you never know a man – or a woman – until you fight them, so I would say I look forward to getting to know all of them. _Very _well." He waves down at the tributes from the inner districts who shoot him scornful glares.

I shake my head.

What an idiot. He'll be the first target at the Cornucopia.

The interview concludes with Brandon displaying the best way to fight a wild bear, with Cicero being the wild animal – even though I know he's never fought so much as a wild mouse – and the buzzer goes off and the audience is going crazy for him and I'm feeling a little bit jealous.

"He did so well!" my sister gushes.

I pull a face at her and she complains for the rest of the broadcast.

Typical.

The interviews go by without much else to comment on, bar the boy from 12 who has a bit of spine and says not to judge a book by its cover.

I stalk out of the room moodily without a word and go to bed.

I lie awake for hours, thinking how crazy it is that now _he's_ the popular one. It used to be that he relied on me to hang out with the coolest people and now he had people cheering for him. Now he was suave and attractive and likable, all without my help.

And I don't really get it.

* * *

We have the next day off school so we can watch the opening day of the Games.

The arena is a foggy, muddy marshland.

It's a swamp for miles and miles around and when the pedestals rise up Brandon is launched between the girl from 6 and the boy from 2. The golden horn of the Cornucopia is spilling with supplies – not just weapons but plenty of food and water as well. It's obvious they don't want a repeat of last year.

The gong goes off and Brandon makes the run.

"Bran, you stupid fucking idiot!" I scream, knowing he can't hear me.

Yet he's left untouched as the fighting rages on around him. He throws a plump, well-stocked backpack over his shoulders, picks up a shiny, cruelly curved scythe for himself and turns to make the dash when he's met by the pretty pair from 1.

The girl flutters her eyelashes. "You want to play?"

Brandon scowls but says nothing.

"No smiles for us now, then? Let's give him a big red one," the boy sneers.

The two tributes from 1 smile devilishly and dive towards him and swing their swords at his large, bulky frame.

In one swift movement, faster than I even knew Brandon could be, my best friend, the person I thought I knew, dodges their heavy, blundering blows and from the ground tears open the girl's stomach.

I look on in horror as she clutches at her stomach to hold her intestines in, her blood soaks through her clothes, her death gurgles are amplified by high-tech Capitol equipment.

For our viewing pleasure.

All done by the person I call friend.

I feel bile rise in my throat.

Getting to his feet, Brandon parries and blocks the boy's sword time and time again yet never seems to break sweat, until he eventually dodges, fakes a lunge, and then cuts the blonde's throat open.

The boy from 1 collapses to the ground in a crumpled heap: a perfect picture.

Bran looks at them with disgust.

"Don't make it a career," he mutters and abandons the battle.

Five minutes later the cannons sound.

The fighting is over but my heart is still racing.

_My best friend just killed two people. _

This is not happening.

* * *

Over the course of two weeks, I become sickeningly popular by association.

Everyone wants to speak to me about Brandon.

Girls want to know if he's single. Boys want to know is he really that tough. Little kids want his autograph if he comes home.

When he makes it to the top eight, a camera crew from the Capitol arrives.

"Is this normal?" I ask them nervously, staring down the camera lens.

The reporter snaps a crimson-tipped nail – talon, really – at me.

"Look at me, Bailey," she coos. "Just relax."

"It's Bale, actually," I grunt. At least get my fucking name right.

"That's right. So, what's Brandon like at home?" she asks.

I shrug but my voice is trembling as I speak. "Normal lad, more physical than brainy but has a heart of gold, you know?" I look at the cameraman. "Er… is that alright?"

The reporter smiles. Her teeth are dyed red. Disgusting.

"Fabulous, but just look at me sweetie. Tell me, does Brandon have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, there must be _some_ –"

I grit my teeth. "No. I'm telling the truth."

She cocks her head sideways and gives that little faux-smile of hers.

"Alright then! What about his family?"

This is a more difficult question. "He lives with his parents and they're pretty close. He's an only child."

She nods slowly and clutches at her clearly enhanced chest as if I'm giving some incredibly moving and incredible speech.

"And how do you think they'll react when they find out he killed his own district partner?" she says with a purse of her lips.

I recoil in shock.

"He – he what? No, he didn't. Winnie is still… Winnie is dead?"

The reporter's red-tinted eyes go wide. "I'm so sorry, did you not know? It was just broadcast, he found her and… well, brought the numbers down to seven… how does that makes you feel? Angry? Betrayed? Is _this _the Brandon you know?"

I'm still reeling. "I guess… shocked… wait, no, don't use that," I splutter. "No, I'm done."

I start to leave and the reporter is telling me we're not finished.

"It's OK, we have enough," I hear the cameraman tell her.

I run home and see it for myself on TV. Brandon finds Winnie, she's gone mad from dehydration and isolation and thinks he's her older brother when he takes a knife out of his belt and slits her throat.

"You bastard!" I scream. "_You fucking traitor bastard!_"

My mother has to calm me down while my sister watches me wide-eyed.

I'll never forgive him.

Never.

* * *

We all get called to the square to watch the finale.

Brandon and the girl from District 8 are driven to the Cornucopia where the girl from 4 is taking refuge.

The girl from 8 is beautiful and built for stealth, not battle, so it's no surprise when she's the first to go down. She's pinned to the damp ground with a lance in her chest, her dark curls covering her face.

There's an eerie silence interrupted only by the sounds of the marshland.

"You've got a good shot," Brandon says to the girl from 4.

She eyes him suspiciously and holds her spears to her with greater urgency. She's getting ready to throw.

_Kill him_.

_Kill him for what he did to Winnie._

The girl from 4 fires her next spear without preamble, her blonde hair flying from the quick movement as she does so, but Brandon falls into a forward roll and misses it by inches. He comes back up with a leap and all of a sudden he's in front of her and his scythe comes down and –

She's blocked it with the hilt of her weapon.

"Kill him!" I bellow.

My mother is watching me, aghast, as scythe meets spear and steels meets steel.

"Bale, your friend is fighting for his life. For our district."

I turn to her.

"He killed one of us. He's not fighting for me."

I look back at the screen.

Brandon is gaining the upper hand. The girl from 4 is smaller and more agile but she lacks the sheer mass and muscle of her opponent. She's so busy fending off his blows that she doesn't notice that she's being driven into a corner until it's too late.

She can feel the ledge of the swamp behind her and tries to swivel.

This makes her let her guard down.

The scythe cuts across her flesh. There's a spray of blood and she falls to her knees.

I don't wait for the trumpets and storm out of the house, ignoring my mother's pleas to come back.

* * *

They're all cheering for him.

Idiots.

My arms are folded and I can feel the tightness in my body and the sourness on my face as the young man's hand is raised in victory by his mentor, the temperamental and vivacious victor from over a decade ago.

She's just as stupid as he is.

They're murderers, traitors, all of them.

As parents lift children onto their shoulders and young people weep with joy at the thought of food and blankets and delicacies, I feel nothing but shame.

I am ashamed that I live in a district where we celebrate the man who killed a girl he knew.

I... I never would've done that.

There are so many things he _could've_ done.

He should have hidden and waited it out.

Or just done something – killed someone else.

I look up and our eyes meet as the crowd around me continues to revel in euphoria.

Between us, there is a mutual understanding.

The Hunger Games have changed Brandon Barlow.

We never speak again.

* * *

**How the Hunger Games ruins friendships. I thought this would be an interesting POV to write from. I don't know if it worked but it was worth a try! Ooh, also, I realize how whingy and annoying this sounds, and I know there a lot of you who read and don't review and while I love those of you who do often (such as hollyhobbit, lottielue, melliemoo, Oisin55 - major love) I would LOVE to hear the perspective of some new readers too. Reviews make my day. -Kiliflower**


	22. Calliope

**The Victor of the Twenty-First Annual Hunger Games and Chief Headmistress of the Conservatoire Calliope Lafayette has six integral disciplines for both herself and her students.**

* * *

**The first is composure. **

Her arena was a volcano.

When it was down to her alliance and a few outliers, they exterminated the baggage with an eruption that also killed the boy from 2. He disappeared beneath a sea of fire and magma while the rest of them looked on helplessly.

Calliope frowned. He was a good kisser.

After a day of inactivity where nobody wanted to be the first to break the alliance, the Gamemakers took matters into their own hands.

The ground beneath the tributes began to shake violently and split open, swallowing up their campsite. The boy from 4 almost lost his life but his district partner caught him just in time.

Yet the attack was far from over. Toxic purple fumes billowed from the ground of the arena where the earthquake had torn the soil and stone apart.

The girl from District 1 was the first to see that it was mechanized: no gas was this formulaic, should move this intentionally. It was meant to kill them or split them apart and that much was for certain.

Calliope was no coward, but she could connect the dots.

The Gamemakers wanted their victor now.

She made an executive decision, abandoned the alliance and ran for her life.

The others were foolish, they wasted time picking up scraps of beef and bread and bottles of water and though Calliope couldn't see them as she descended the slope, they were flailing on the ground, vomiting up blood and flecks of their own lungs.

It was a ghastly, brutal, despicable sight and in the Capitol they cheered.

Her district partner was stumbling away. He managed to avoid the brunt of the gas and though blood and spew dribbled down his chin, he was not dead yet. In fact, he seemed outraged as he tracked down his partner to where she was taking a breather on all fours and grabbed her by the hair.

"You fucking bitch," he hissed. "You ran."

She didn't say a word, her chest still heaving.

"You know what I'm going to do?" he said between pants. "I think I'm going to snap your pretty neck."

He leaned into her ear.

"I'm going to botch it, make you limp so the fire can have you. Let the Capitol watch you burn, how does that sound?"

Calliope whimpered and tried to shake him off half-heartedly, still catching her breath.

The boy laughed. "You should've fucked me while you had the chance."

He moved so as to put her in a headlock.

And then the blonde beauty was twisting in an elegant, complicated, dance-like movement and the boy was grasping at thin air where Calliope had been moments before.

He was gawping when, in a flash of silver, the shuriken sliced through the air and embedded itself into his eye socket.

The boy from 1 let out a bellow of rage and pain.

Calliope gracefully got to her feet and brushed herself off.

"Stop being a baby. You should feel privileged."

Looking at the dirt on her outfit with a wrinkled nose, she filled the gap between herself and her district partner.

She leant down to the young man who was screeching and writhing in pain, took out a dagger from inside her shirt and eyed the boy up with amused, periwinkle eyes.

"I kept this one for you."

Calliope brought the knife down and there was a sickening squelch as blade met gut.

When the five cannons went off Calliope counted them carefully on her fingers, making sure she didn't miss any, and retrieved her weapons from her district partner.

She cleaned the blood from them without being squeamish.

A lady shouldn't wince when she kills.

* * *

**The second is ambition. **

Two years after her victory, a nineteen-year-old Calliope strode into Peridot Strauss' office with her signature sultry strut and an assuredness and confidence that was well beyond her years.

"Hello Perry," she purred.

Peridot bowed his head. "Callie."

She let out a tinkling laugh and tossed her hair behind her shoulder.

"Oh no, that won't do I'm afraid," she said, her tone pointed and dangerous.

"And why is that?" Peridot asked, equally as poised to strike.

"I'm so glad you asked," said Calliope, her voice as smooth as velvet. "You can call me Headmistress Lafayette now."

Peridot stared blankly at her for a few moments.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he said.

"Oh, I think you do," Calliope responded quickly. "Allow me to explain it to you. You've pawned myself and Glamour off to our sponsors, trapped us in a spider web of sex and deceit – it's rather like the Capitol erotica novels. Read it sometime, Perry, a book might do you some good. While we've been out there being forced to lay with old men and women with too much money and not enough sense, you've been here counting your coins and not paying attention."

There was utter silence as Peridot continued to watch his old tribute.

Calliope continued.

"Listening now, are we? Good. Well, I took it upon myself to arrange a private meeting with the Madame President. She had taken ill this week, but made an exception to meet me – very kind of her. She was _so_ excited to hear about my take on youth empowerment in District 1 and that self-defence is absolutely crucial to young women and men. I told her that I had seen the sheer barbarism of the Tenements myself and I wanted to use my win in the Games for the greater good."

"Cut to the chase, girl. What do you want?" snapped Peridot.

Calliope applied red lipstick slowly and sensuously before she spoke again.

"I think you know. I want to – well, no, I _am_ going to – have all of this." She motioned to the building around her.

Peridot stood up, red in the face and spitting in fury. "You can't! It is _mine_!"

The girl opposite him shook a finger at him like she was reprimanding a child. "Wrong. It's nothing official. I have papers, a signature from the President herself and you have… well, you have your opinion. While you've had this building – because that's what it is, really – you've produced two victors and allowed outlier rats to sneak through the fence. Not anymore."

"You would have nothing without me. I saved you," growled Peridot.

There was a moment's silence and Calliope stepped forward, her air of light and jubilance all but gone.

"You think you _saved _me? Turning me into a whore was _saving_ me? You thought that me having to drag Levesque from the brink of death-by-dreamdust every other night, laying back and spreading my legs for bankers and socialites and CEOs is some sort of prize? I wish I'd had the murks for mentors, at least then I'd still have some semblance of self-respect," she snarled.

As her words rolled over him, Peridot knew that he had been defeated. His own people had been plotting against him and he had been none the wiser.

"I can't leave," he whispered.

Calliope flashed her brilliant, perfectly white, cruel smile and threw her handbag, the most in-demand in the Capitol, down on the desk.

"But you will."

She went to the door and opened it.

"Now get the hell out of my office."

* * *

**The third is rationality. **

Calliope has no sooner solidified her position as Chief Headmistress of the Conservatoire of District 1 and gained the respect of the students than she gets a punch in the gut from the Capitol when they announce the First Quarter Quell.

The people will be choosing their tributes.

She stays awake in her quarters for nights on end, frustrated to no end, knowing that she can't sway the entire population of the district to send her perfect little warriors into the arena to win for them.

She opens her filing cabinet that's made from authentic mahogany and looks at the two she had picked out for her first year: both eager, beautiful, talented children wanting to change their lives for the better.

Calliope places their files back in the cabinet and with a sigh sits back down and laces her fingers together and furrows her brow.

She needs a strategy.

There was no doubt that the district would turn out against the dark, filthy murk children that they couldn't bear the sight of. No shining child of District 1 would be going to the Capitol.

And in a moment of sheer delight, with a rush of power that seems to fill her from head to toe like electricity, Calliope realizes that she's saving more kids than she's executing.

She sends her underlings to spread the word that the entire Conservatoire be present for an announcement the next day.

They all stare up at her with glistening, perfect blue eyes.

"You've heard about the upcoming Quarter Quell in which the people of District 1 shall choose who will represent them in the Hunger Games."

Calliope pursed her lips and folded her hands politely in front of her. She moved in closer to the microphone.

"No-one from the Conservatoire shall volunteer."

The murmurs began almost instantly: furious, bitter, self-concerned whispers of those who were about to miss their last chance at fame and glory. The young, more immature students sprung up with their curiousity as to the Headmistress' decision.

"Silence!"

There was instant quiet.

"I will not have two of my students risk their lives if the Capitol instructs that we are to vote on it as a district. It is not my place, nor yours, to question them, and if any of you have a problem with that, then you can leave now."

Not one of them moved.

Calliope put her hands on her hips and felt that invigorating swell of power as she looked across the crowd and knew that every last one of them would give their lives for her.

"You may return to your rooms."

The crowd of young people began to move away like cattle.

"Enjoy your year off," she whispered.

Several months later, two young people were called to the Reaping stage, both Tenement vermin as dark as coal. They weren't _hopeless_, they still had a chance – the boy in particular – and if the other districts decide to vote with hate-filled hearts and not their brains in their skulls then they could be bringing home another victor, it seemed.

Calliope pursed her lips, trying to ignore the rage that was emanating from Jasmia and Linon as they sat there brewing in their own misfortune.

How irrational.

* * *

**The fourth is expertise.**

Calliope is a firm believer in skill.

Anybody can throw a punch or swing a sword or thrust a dagger but it takes an _expert _to be able to dance and move and treat a battle like an art.

She knows it's vain, but sometimes she watches her old Games back and admires the reflexes of her younger self as she swivels and rolls and blasts a throwing star into her district partner just like _that_.

She doesn't think she should be taken for an egomaniac either, mind you. She's just as proud of her own victors. Calliope insists on choosing her tributes early and making sure that they all are well-versed in pattern dances and parries and blocks and how to know the difference between when an enemy is about to fake a lunge and when they're really going for the jugular.

She watches their Games back, too, and sometimes she quietly weeps with pride.

Not that she'd ever tell the ungrateful whelps.

All she gets from them is cheek.

After their seventh claim to victory, the Conservatoire underwent a renovation and it now contained multi-disciplinary training rooms and a gymnasium. They also got to expand their dorms, allowing more room for students - this was a double-edged sword because it meant that the murk victors demanded they be allowed representation and who was Calliope to deny it to them? They were fellow victors, after all.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, Calliope would sneak into the training room.

Her assistant will have set up the dummies for her and she'll send her old shuriken whistling through the air and landing in the heart, head and stomach.

"Still got it," she'll say, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

On occasion, a group of restless new students will sneak down and watch her, thinking that they're unseen and hidden in the shadows or on the balconies. What they don't know is that it's a performance, the Headmistress is perfectly aware of their presence, and she wants them to know that this is how it's done.

Well, this is how she did it.

The Games have changed since her day.

It's a lot more to do with luck now.

* * *

**The fifth is enterprise. **

As she glides into the room, prim and proper and as beautiful ever, Calliope tries to hide the fact that she wishes she were anywhere else.

It's a celebration of the final eight for this year's Games and both of District 1 is among them, naturally. Unfortunately, the arena is a special-built one and harbors no form of self-preservation in the form of food so sponsors are absolutely necessary.

This is where tight dresses and big smiles come in handy.

"Cornelius, always a pleasure!" she says with a kiss on the cheek of the group's only singleton. "Tell me, how is your mother?"

The thirty-something has inherited his father's handsomeness but it's clouded as his face darkens. "Not well, I'm afraid, Callie."

Calliope places an understanding, sympathetic hand on his shoulder, allowing it to linger a little too long.

"I am sorry; I can be such an airhead at times. All the gas from my Games has gone and made me loopy, you see," she says with her tinkling laugh and the rest of the group joins in with her.

The recent victor from 12 walks past her, shooting her a foul, dirty look that suggests he's still upset about last year and Calliope returns it with a sweet, simpering 'good evening'.

Outlying districts take things so personally.

Why, if _she_ were to hold grudges, there would be no Career alliance.

She turns back to the group. "Cornelius, I _must_ get you alone for a few moments!"

The group lets out a few oohs and she waves them off with good humour, linking her arm with the sole bachelor in the group.

"Now Cornelius, I know what they all say: District 1 is an empty investment, all looks and no bite," she tells him as they stroll through the magnificent halls of the host's mansion. "But look at our pair this year: Radiance has the most kills to her name, as well as being absolutely _stunning_, don't you agree? And while Jasper is a bit quieter and introverted, he's proved to be a valuable member of the alliance," she rattles off.

The man shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, I don't know Callie…"

Calliope played her trump card.

"I'll throw in a night with Radiance if she wins. Or Jasper, if that's what you prefer."

Cornelius looked around as if afraid someone would hear him.

"What about both of you?" he asked, putting a hand on her hip.

She let him stroke the small of her back for a moment and swallowed her instinct to slap him before cooing and coddling him.

"Of course," she whispered.

Cornelius smiled.

"I'll ring my people right this minute," he said and took out his phone.

Calliope smiled and nodded.

_It was all for the best._

* * *

**The sixth is ruthlessness.**

Katniss Everdeen cuts through a tree branch as a sleeping Glimmer lies below.

"No, wake up, wake _up,_" Cashmere says urgently, clinging to her station with the ferocious passion that only a relatively new mentor can have.

A group of victors from 1 are gathered around both mentors, throwing out pieces of advice to both Cashmere and Marvel's mentor, a stocky young fellow whose face seems to be set in a permanent grimace.

There's a wail of disgust and pain as the branch snaps.

With it goes the tracker jacker nest, which splits open, its inhabitants consuming Glimmer's body as she tries desperately to shake them off but to no avail.

Her allies abandon her.

Calliope watches them flee and knows they made the right choice.

It's one she made herself, many years ago.

Cashmere makes a strangled noise, her sobs caught in her throat.

Callie steps forward, leaning on her custom-made cane. She's old, yes, but she still has her wits about her, not to mention she thinks she's fine as hell for an old lady.

"Be quiet, now," she snaps at the young woman in front of her. "That girl is dead, do you see? You can't do anything for her anymore. _You better look at her, Cashmere Sinclair, or so help me._"

Cashmere raises her head and stares at the bloated, oozing corpse that was her tribute.

"Your tears aren't going to bring her back any more than they'll bring back the other dead ones. Save your sobbing for someone who'll get something from it."

And with that, Calliope Lafayette began to totter away, pretending that she hadn't seen Brutus' wink or Haymitch's grim nod of approval.

It was no consolation.

These new kids knew nothing about the Games.

Nothing.

* * *

**The establishment of the District 1 Conservatoire and the new Headmistress is one tough broad. Calliope will be back, believe me. -Kiliflower **


	23. Oxalisa

I turn the ivory dice between my fingers, the curves of each indentation rippling on my skin.

It makes me feel powerful and I shiver in excitement.

As I push my diamond-encrusted glasses up my nose, I can't help but be worried about how restless my friends are becoming. This is my first year hosting The Hunger Games Hangout – not the most original name, I know, but we had to give Paulus something to do – and I don't want to mess it up. I'm the responsible, co-ordinated, level-headed one. If I fail then they won't look at me the same.

Someone coughs and my brain starts buzzing with nerves.

The group's impatience and antsy disposition gives me the incentive to speak.

"Welcome all, to The Fourth Annual Hunger Games Hangout!" I exclaim, perhaps a little too eagerly.

My friend Drusilla rolls her eyes, whips out her carrier phone and begins texting rapidly, her electric pink irises not leaving the screen. She's the least into the Hangout out of the four of us, but I'm not going to let her ruin the fun for the rest of us.

Aurelius and Paulus, the rest of the party, watch me with mostly good intent, although it discourages me to see Aurelius slip Drusilla the eye every now and again.

He has no chance with her. Silla and Paul are the cool kids from prominent families and Aurelius and I… well, we're the offspring of accountants who _work_ for families like theirs.

Luckily, we've all been brought together by one thing.

The Hunger Games.

It takes one look around my room to see how big a fan I am of the Games. Autographs and well-wishes from Brandon, Shale and even Calliope stand upon the college dorm table (I refuse to leave home without them), imaginative and inspired fan-art as well as official posters mount the walls, old Hunger Games tapes are organized in chronological order next to my computer.

And right in the epicentre of the room is my pride and joy: the laminated letter of my invitation to Glamour's victory banquet, also known as the best night of my life.

Not only did I get to meet all the victors from the ever-charming Peridot to quiet, diminutive Caleb to the goddess that is Mags _and_ I got to speak to Glamour while he was at the height of his fame.

Sure, he's gone a little off the rails they say, but you can't keep a party boy down.

Paulus has a few photos with him at S-T-Y-X.

It was what gave me the idea for the Hangout. We used to have a lot more members, but now it's just us hardcore fans left.

There's a loud cough.

"So, are we going to get this show on the road or will we just wait until the Reaping and pick then?"

Drusilla is glaring at me. I still think she's playing down how passionate she is about this.

I nod fervently and grab a pen and notepad, dice still in hand.

"Right, I'll go through the rules before we begin –" I begin.

There are groans of protest.

"Every year!"

"We know already!"

"You always tell us!"

I fix them all with a look that means business. They slump, defeated, and I know I've won.

"As a part of our prelude to the Games, as you all know, we've each of us been saving up a small sum of money. Who this sponsor money goes to depends entirely on _these_."

I hold the dice and they all motion for me to carry on and get it done and over with as quickly as possible.

"Each of us will roll the dice until one of us lands the skull."

I swivel the cube in my fingers and present it to the group where a skull and crossbones is drawn in deep black ink.

"The person who lands the skull gets the outlying districts and the remaining three get the 1-2-4 alliance. As you can't just _land_ on the number one by its own, a pair of regular dice will decide who gets District 2 and 4 and the one who remains will get District 1."

Aurelius rubs his hands together, his eyes alive with anticipation.

"And for the person who lands old skully?" he chirps.

I sigh.

"The person who rolls the original skull with the first pair of dice has to roll with the _normal_ dice and the first combination of numbers is the district they're supporting for this year."

I sit up a little straighter.

"No matter what happens, we must stand by our selected district. All is fair in love and the Games. Agreed?"

"Agreed," everyone chimes.

"But if I get the skull and 12 _again_ I'm ending it all," Drusilla says with a flick of her hair.

I let out a snort of laughter. We all remember when she got stuck with the coal miners during the Nineteenth and she still cringes when it comes up.

"Right, crunch time," I say and roll the first pair of dice.

It's a blank.

There's a group sigh and I pass the dice to Drusilla, who also rolls a blank.

We go around the circle twice and on my third throw I roll a skull.

"Fuck!"

The reaction is impulsive and instant and as I shrivel up inside, wishing that I could have another chance, Paulus lets out a bark of laughter.

"Ha! I knew it! I had a gut feeling this would be your year for skulls, Max my friend!" he says with a whoop of glee as Silla punches the air in joy.

"We'll see," I mutter, even though my chances are completely gone down the drain.

Drusilla got District 12 the first year and both were bloodbath stains, and Paulus has gotten the skulls with unsuccessful runs on both occasions.

The dice is cursed.

As I take out the regular dice and hand them with a great deal of reluctance to my friends, I sadly watch them roll until one of them gets a 2 or 4.

The first is Paulus, who rolls a 2. He puffs his chest out, thumps on it like some district ape and hollers like an idiot.

I roll my eyes, but Silla is looking at him funnily, like it's turning her on.

Whatever she's into, I guess.

It takes a few rolls until Drusilla manages to get a 4 on the dice and she beams with delight: she's always been fond of the fishing district and she basically _worships_ Mags – during her softer moments she even whispers about liking the crazy girl from a couple of years ago – so it's a perfect roll.

That leaves Aurelius with District 1. I look at him for his response, knowing that he's the second biggest Games nut in the room.

"They'll do. Can't see them winning twice in a row, but stranger things have happened," he says with a shrug.

"So Max, your turn – time for the big reveal," smirks Paulus.

I take a deep breath and lean over the coffee table, pray to the Capitol and Tide and the gods that it all works out, shake my dice and throw.

There's a problem.

I throw a little too hard and the first dice lands fine but the other tumbles off the table.

"You idiot," Drusilla grumbles.

I try to look like I'm not _dying_ of embarrassment inside right now.

"Aurelius, check the dice that fell will you?" I ask him.

He nods and swoops beneath the table, re-emerging a moment later.

"It's a four," he says swiftly.

I look at the other dice and do the math.

"District 10," I say quietly.

The others exchange looks and after a moment of silence, are utterly affable once more.

I remain aloof.

"Well, good luck with your farmers and loonies Max – I'm sure Shale and Marcus and the rest of the team have a fascinating display planned for this year," Paulus says proudly.

Aurelius groans. "You wish. Watch District 1 win back-to-back and me get my money back three-fold, you'll be asking me for pennies."

"If you're quite finished, I'll send Mags your regards," Drusilla chortles.

I remain silent.

_District 10. _

I've already lost.

* * *

The four of us meet up for the Reaping recap.

Paulus has an arm around Drusilla. They must be a thing now. Aurelius is trying to comfort me, says he'll bring me to S-T-Y-X after, we'll find some girls _and_ he knows someone who can get him some dreamdust but I'm too shaken by this sunken feeling to respond to him. He eventually gives up.

It's the usual group of commentators on the screen: the representative from Pegasus' bookmakers, Head Gamemaker Dewhurst and the endlessly energetic, unstoppably chatty Nigella Greenleaf.

They banter about for a bit, some cheeky gossip and back-handed compliments about Nigella's cheek implants and the heavily-moustached man from Pegasus says that there are strong numbers for District 1, 2 and 4 coming through.

I want to spit at him. Anyone who calls themselves a fan of the Games would know as much.

Normally it's one of my favourite parts of the Games, because I have a strong tribute to root for. This time I have nothing and it's the worst feeling in the world.

They roll the footage.

District 1 is quite the let-down. I don't know if it's because Calliope is just too outrageously beautiful, even now as she sits in her seat, but the pair for this year can't touch her. No, these two – Jubilance and Joy – don't even come close. Aurelius' energy sags somewhat next to me but I say nothing, my eyes fixed on the screen.

Where the luxury district disappoints, District 2 delivers. The boy is called Clayton and he swears by the blood that runs through his veins that he will bring honour and glory to his people and the crowd swells to a cheer. The girl is called Sala and she only gives her name but her grey eyes are devoid of any emotion as she does it.

District 3 passes by with nothing much happening except for the girl fainting when her name is read out.

I'd say it's such an overwhelming experience to be chosen, I'd faint too.

"Shut up all of you, I'm next!" Drusilla shrieks and throws Paulus off her and he moves to the other end of the couch, muttering profanities.

District 4 does well for themselves this year and produces two honed, good-looking competitors. Their names are Rowley, who has a mean and dominant glint in his eye and Jessop who is fierce and androgynous and looks every bit the warrior.

"We're winning this year, Jessop has it," says Silla aloud, clutching to her embroidered pillows.

The middle districts don't provide much worth talking about.

In District 6, the boy leaves a slug-like trail of vomit as he traipses up to the stage like a broken puppet. I feel bad for him – to be so ill during a Reaping, what horrid luck.

When they get to 7, the children are stony-faced but at least they don't cry unlike District 9, where both the children are small and sniffling and have to be dragged to take their place.

"Moment of truth Max," Paulus reiterates.

I throw up my middle finger without even looking at him.

District 10 is on the screen. Their Reaping is taking place somewhere dry, dusty and windy – their hair whips about their faces and they clutch to their oddly-shaped shawls, the adults keeping their strange straw hats tinted downward… perhaps to keep the sun out of their eyes, it does look awfully bright there.

I cross my fingers as the girl is called.

She's not a crier or a struggler, which is good. She's quite attractive, actually, in an exotic sort of way, with dark brown skin and beetle-black eyes. She looks well-fed, with the onset of pubescent curves and a prominent breast and she smiles as she steps up onto the stage, her black hair interwoven with lilies and daisies and milkweed.

"Your girl is some sort of bohemian, Max," laughs Silla.

She waves at the crowd, exposing large wooden bangles with etchings on them that I can't quite make out.

Her name flashes beneath the screen.

Oxalisa Tamboli.

Her district partner is a tall, imposing boy called Tom. He has sallow skin and dark hair and he doesn't stop frowning.

When you compare that to the girl with the smiles and her long locks braided with flowers, it's easy to tell who I'll be rooting for more.

I can feel the edgy, angry look on my face beginning to relax. I could have a worse lot.

The rest of the reaping continues without much interruption. The girl from District 11 is called Mayzie and her jaw is set as the crowd weeps for her. She must be popular.

District 12 is reaped, producing nothing worth noting and I shut the television off.

"Well, that's that," I say as I go to stand up.

Drusilla protests loudly. "We didn't get to hear the bookies or the special guests talk!"

"Doesn't mean anything, it's all speculation. Besides, you said it yourself, this is _your _year," I tell her bitterly.

"It… it is," Silla says, trailing off unsurely.

"Well, I'm fucked," Aurelius admits, throwing his hands up.

We all look at Paulus.

"I'm going to win," he says with a grin.

Silla throws a pillow at him, misses and hits Aurelius.

They all begin to fight and in the commotion I sneak out of the room, go down the hallway to my room and with a fanatic, nutty mind I decide to do what I do after every Reaping: some good, old-fashioned digging.

It's not cheating.

Well, not to me.

* * *

A quick look on the search engine gives me more than enough results.

Too many, in fact; it's a little overwhelming and I fly through the pages as quickly as possible on my college computer for information on the tributes.

And boy, do I find it.

It takes some time but I get a grand, structural narrative with the aid of the official Hunger Games website, news articles and even some underground blogs and hidden pathways that a select few of us Games nuts know about.

Sala from 2 is totally nuts. Like, dead-inside nuts, from what I see. The papers say that she paralyzed her own sister but it was ruled an accident in the end and she got carted off to some detention facility. The tributes from 4 are cousins and quit school to work on the same trawler.

I get a surprise when I see an entire article devoted to the boy from 6. It mentions that he comes from a drug-den that revolves around a substance known as Morphling B – a cheaper, more attainable and highly addictive opiate version of the morphling we use here in medicine – that has become more widespread throughout the transport district in recent years.

I'm halfway through the article when the browser crashes and redirects me to and our Madame President's face is staring at me like I've done something wrong.

"What the…"

I go back to the main search engine and look for the article on the boy from 6 but it's disappeared.

Well that's annoying.

I eventually get around to District 10 and scoop up not very much at all on the boy: he's a butcher, plain and dumb and uncomplicated – no arc there.

The girl yields something I can sink my teeth into.

She may have smiled at the Reaping but her history is more dubious. She's one of those religious loonies who's all one with the animals and lives on berries and nuts and rabbit food.

But here's the thing: she's outspoken about it. One writer reports that Oxalisa has had multiple non-violent demonstrations in relation to expressing her beliefs and it's at this point that I stop reading.

I'm so frustrated.

What good is non-violence in the Hunger Games?

My phone rings and I go to pick it up.

"Hello?" I answer with a yawn.

Gods and Tide, I'm exhausted.

"Dude, check out the Games Channel! They're showing the training scores live!"

I move too quickly and topple forward on my chair. My face crunches into the ground and I let out the foulest vocabulary that I know. Paulus' voice cackles down the line and this merely unnerves me more.

With the press of a button and my own voice command, the Games Channel is on in seconds.

I've missed District 1. I'm not distraught to be honest.

Clayton scores a nine and Sala one-ups him with a ten. I feel my lip curl and hold the phone from my ear as Paulus screams with pride down the line.

District 4 both bring in an eight and the rail-thin lad from 6 only gets a three. The commentators give a sharp 'ooh!' in response and deem it unlucky but all I can think of is that article I read about Morphling B.

The other districts get a meagre collection of fives and sixes, including Tom.

Oxalisa manages a seven, her too-big smile and fresh-faced naivety giving me a renewed optimism.

"I'm not out yet!" I holler down the phone.

Paulus snorts and says something about dung-kissers and leather-lickers but I ignore him.

Not even he can dampen my spirits.

I grab my pocket money, what I was saving for the post-Games celebration and run as fast as I can to make a sponsorship pledge to Oxalisa.

It's my money to spend on my tribute.

When I leave, I know I've done the right thing.

* * *

Aurelius, Drusilla, Paulus and I are together when the Games kick off.

It's a tropical island; a world away from the volcanoes and marshes and deserts of arenas past. The waves lap up on the shore, a soft breeze courses through the air and the golden Cornucopia gleams in the sunlight as twenty-four tributes get ready to run.

"The runners are going to have to go into the rainforest," says Silla.

I look more closely and see that she's right. The tributes are surrounded by nothing but ocean and the only shelter from the beach where the Cornucopia lies is the rainforest that sprouts up from the sand just a stretch from the pedestals.

It's dense and dark and I bet it's filled with horrors galore.

"Max, you're bleeding," says Aurelius.

I look down. I'm biting my fingernails to bloody stumps.

As the clock counts down, my eyes find Oxalisa. She's between the trembling girl from 12 and the hardy boy from 7 and her eyes are fixed on the Cornucopia.

"No, no, no, don't do it," I whine.

The gong sounds.

Oxalisa runs.

But not where I was expecting.

She turns, does a lap around the pedestals and disappears into the darkness of the rainforest.

The boy from 2 has picked up a sword and cut down one or two tributes but he's searching for someone and a flicker of confusion crosses over his face.

"He was expecting her to make the run," I say out loud.

"What?" Silla snaps.

"Clayton, the boy from 2, he saw her eyeing up the weapons and thought she'd run." I pause to find my words. "But… but… she knew that the others would be watching and only _pretended_ she'd be going in when the gong went."

A camera cuts to several tributes running through the damp and colourful yet eerie rainforest.

Oxalisa doesn't break a sweat as she runs, her smile gone and replaced instead by a grim determination.

"Clever girl," I say to myself.

"You need to stop talking to yourself, you know," Aurelius says stubbornly.

Thirteen cannons sound.

* * *

On the thirteenth day of the Games, the boy from 6 is found and decapitated by Sala from 2.

She brings his head back to their camp and makes it the symbol of their alliance, even as mosquitos and flies gather around it.

"Well, that's upset my appetite," says Drusilla with a gag.

She doesn't care, not really.

She's just still in a bad mood about Paulus not asking her to be his girlfriend.

I switch my attention to the screen where the last of the 1-2-4 alliance – Jessop from 4 and both from 2 – is mustering up their strength. They're all battered and bruised and tired after scouring the rainforest and facing venomous, fanged animals that they know nothing about.

It's been a tough ride for them and Silla's nerves are frayed. Paulus has been gloating to no end and he's utterly convinced he's going to win.

My gaze has been fixed on Oxalisa.

She's been moving silently through the woods like a panther and collecting delicious-looking fruit that must be right for eating because when she bites into them the juice runs down her face and she swallows the entire thing down like she'll never see food again.

There's also a crystalline, sparkling waterfall where the tributes go for water but it's becoming more difficult to access as the Games go on. Oxalisa used to be a regular until she was scared off by something she saw in the pool and she hasn't been back since.

For the past few days, my girl has been somewhat erratic. She's stayed in the same spot, pasting herself into a camouflage and searching the ground and plants for something. If she hears a sudden noise she shoots into the foliage and vanishes from sight.

Today, the Gamemakers have chosen to focus on the core alliance in favour of the animal-worshipper crawling through dirt.

The alliance has taken the day off after their most recent kill and Jessop and Sala are stripping off, removing everything: their underclothes, their socks, their boots… and going for a wash-down in the water.

"Oh come on Clay, wash some of that sweat off," chimes Jessop in a high voice. "You've earned it!"

He doesn't crack a smile but follows suit and the three of them go into the sea to scrub down.

A short figure darts out from the undergrowth.

She's quiet as a mouse and her feet make no noise in the sand.

"What's that she's holding?" Paulus asks the group at large.

I lurch forward and squint but the camera seems to know what I want and zooms in for me.

"Spiders," I say breathlessly.

Oxalisa's face is tight with intention as she kneels down and carefully places a tarantula each in the boots that the tributes so flimsily and flippantly tossed aside.

"No."

Paulus is on his feet.

"She can't do that!"

But the girl from 10 is gone.

"How she wasn't stung… I…" He's lost for words. "Mutts are supposed to attack!"

I shake my head. "They mustn't be mutts, just regular animal. And she was wearing gloves her sponsors sent her. They can't be expensive."

And of course, Oxalisa would be used to those kinds of animals.

She lives with them, worships them, from the littlest crawler to the sturdiest horse.

She probably thinks she just committed blasphemy.

I smile sadly.

The spiders were her last resort.

The other tributes are returning from the water. For the first time, they're laughing and jolly and in good humour.

It all ends when the tributes from 2 collapse onto the ground and begin to writhe in pain.

They try to form words but it's a mumbled, jumbled mess as their muscles begin to spasm uncontrollably. The girl from 4 watches in horror at the sudden escalation of the situation as her allies begin to choke on their own vomit, their convulsions increasing in severity before they lie still, pale and unmoving and wide-eyed.

Their cannons don't go off for several hours but they're as good as dead.

She abandons the camp with her spear in hand, looking dazed and uncertain when she's set upon by the girl from 10, who is covered in mud and leaves and filth and looks completely and utterly mad.

The girl from 4 is armed but Oxalisa has fashioned a crude spear of her own from a jagged piece of rock and tree bark and she shoves it through Jessop's eye before the fisher girl can even register the attack.

Jessop falls to the sand, clutching at her face as blood pours between her fingers.

Drusilla is begging Jessop to get up, please get up.

I'm screaming at Oxalisa to finish her, finish her now.

A few minutes later the trumpets sound.

I win.


	24. Hemmard

The Victor's Ball was the social event of the year and Hemmard was grumpier than usual.

Dionysus Dewhurst's mansion had been done up to an overwhelming degree of flamboyance and colour, all to celebrate the second Hunger Games achievement of District 8: the event invitations insisted that guests wear only the_ finest_ evening wear made of the _finest _materials. This was a dress-to-impress occasion and the Capitolites were pulling out all the stops, showing off their best or most unique costume choices, from elegant gowns to bold fashion statements.

And then there was the main focus of the celebration, Hemmard Wilson, the factory worker's son, dressed in a form-fitting cerulean suit with statement contrasts of colourful tweed. He was resisting the urge to scratch his skin bloody. The course material made him itch so badly it felt like ants were crawling beneath his olive skin.

At eighteen, Hemmard was young but looked much older due to his sullen disposition and his general hostility. His signature toddler's pout had become his trademark. With shoulder-length brown hair, tied into a scruffy ponytail atop his head, he had set trends amongst the more defiant Capitol youth.

Hemmard surveyed the room with harsh and judging hazel eyes.

It was true that the young man looked somewhat rough around the collar even on a good day, but the sycophantic acts he had been forced to swallow since he had arrived at Gamemaker Dewhurst's private home was starting to become more than he could handle without liquor.

Already in the past twenty minutes he had forced his face every which way in an attempt to look interested for a magenta-skinned woman in a nude dress – why bother putting it on – and an elderly man whose hairstyle and body mass was far too much like the sea-cows from the picture books Hemmard had owned as a child.

The other victors weren't helping matters. Woof was doing his best but most of them were drunk or flatly refused to show any kind of propriety or respect.

Brandon had overindulged in the cinnamon wine and had to be escorted out of the party with sick on his shoes and a disgruntled Grainne swearing under her breath. Oxalisa was swaying back and forth against the rhythm of the music, her eyes shut and arms outstretched as if she was reaching for the stars that twinkled far above her.

As the Capitolites fawned over her as if she were an unusual species of bird, Hemmard smiled wryly. The girl had won last year with a little spider trick and a makeshift lance but she seemed so harmless.

That was the power of the Games.

Hemmard had been tactical from the start. He forced himself to tremble and shake so that their eyes would divert to the beautiful girl who took to the stage with him. He stumbled over his words with perfect timing and repeated the same answer just enough times during the interview, almost cried when they brought up his feeble five in training.

Yes. He was bloodbath bait, they had thought.

Only he wasn't.

Hemmard sprung away from the initial massacre, narrowly missing a knife thrown by the girl from the luxury district. The people from Panem chuckled at how he evaded attacks, little twirls and strange body twists and sudden drops.

A running joke began in the Capitol referring to him as the boy made of twine.

Yet as the Games went on and the tributes began to die under the weak sun of the mild autumnal arena, Hemmard persevered. He hid beneath the copious and wide-spread bramble bushes by night, defending himself from the roaming wild dogs that sought his flesh. He survived on the roots that grew in the small ponds and he darted off to the rushing river just when his dehydration was beginning to worsen his state.

The pack of tributes from the inner districts prowled the arena for the outliers. The hardy, grey-eyed girl from 12 put up more of a fight than anyone from her district had since Jerome. That aside, she was cut open and left out as food for the crows.

The boy from 4, unhinged to begin with, desecrated the girl's corpse.

It was unnecessary, her cannon had sounded, but the show earned him a bowl of broth.

Hemmard watched and the cameras caught the way his eyes changed, his lips thinned.

Soon, the pair from 1 began to take charge of the group, leading them on an excursion that led to the death of the pretty girl from 5.

Before long, the general public couldn't help but notice that the two blondes from 1 continued to refer to their handy-work as that of the 'careers'. Brandon had accidentally coined the term three years previous, the name had stuck and in no time at all, there was unofficial – yet legal – merchandise advertising the main alliance of The Twenty-Third Games.

The group of six knew they had yet to hunt down the boy from 8: the wimpy, stuttering one who couldn't string a sentence together. Deciding that he was probably out there freezing to death and in no rush to take on six armed tributes by themselves, they decided to leave their search until the morning.

It was their first and last mistake.

Hemmard snuck up in the night, a small tin can in his hand and an even smaller cardboard box in the other. His shoes were gone, his hair hung lank around his face. But even underneath the dirt and sweat his eyes shone with malice and a shrewd sense of revenge.

The boy from 4 was on watch but exhaustion had gotten the better of him and he lay in slumber, his head resting lightly on his shoulder. His airy sighs of sleep came softly as the boy from 8 treaded around him with great delicacy.

The oil that Hemmard poured around the tent had a fancy ass scientific name, but he wasn't sure what it was. People would later tell him it was kerosene and Woof had been waiting and saving and hoping that he'd be able to send it to Hemmard in time. The box of matches was less pricey but still cost a lot more than they should.

Yet the stink of the liquid began to carry and the Careers stirred.

"Amethyst, what is that?" came a voice from within the tent, tinged with the croakiness of someone who had just woken.

The flames rose instantly.

The boy from 4 watched dumbfounded as his allies were roasted alive, their high, piercing wails and the smell of oil and burning flesh intermingling in a bizarre concoction of cruelty.

He didn't even notice Hemmard in time to stop the boy snapping his neck.

"- it's so nice to have a formal introduction at last! Calliope Lafayette, District 1."

Hemmard looked up to find a pair of shining, seductive blue eyes looking up at him.

"Glamour," slurred the man next to her. He was handsome, but the dark circles under his eyes and cracked lips betrayed him.

The mentoring pair from 1 had been astonishingly nonplussed by their loss. Hemmard had barely been able to take his eyes from the curves and smoothness of the woman's body even as she prattled on in dulcet tones about how next year she wouldn't be fooled quite so easily.

"You got us all with how harmless you looked, Hemmard," she said with a sweet smile.

Hemmard stuck his hands in his pockets. He was a good head taller than the woman but he shrunk in her presence.

"Just did what I had to do." It was his go-to line now.

"Just a box of matches and oil and five kids dead like that," exclaimed Glamour, his eyes unfocused. Even from where Hemmard stood you could see his dilated pupils.

Shit.

"Excuse me," Hemmard said blankly. "I think I need to use the restroom."

Calliope flashed a smile. "Of course – and do hurry back Hemmard. We have a lot to talk about."

Without responding, Hemmard forced his way through the throng of socialites and politicians, presenters and journalists, Gamemakers and avoxes, searching desperately for the goddamned jacks.

He managed to fend off a round of shots from Shale and Romulus, almost interrupted a conversation between the Minister of Finance and Caleb to ask about _the fucking bathroom_ and was about to give up when he found himself alone in the foyer.

The entire place was so covered in materials from muslin drapes to fur throw-overs and nameless velvet furbishing, it was a dizzying array of colour and combined with the wine and snort of dreamdust that Hemmard had tested earlier he was starting to feel disoriented.

He snuck into the hallway where the air was colder and was instantly delighted to see that it was almost empty.

A young man not much older than he was stood before him, swirling a glass of deep red wine and looking about as unenthused as Hemmard felt. His blonde-white hair was slicked back with some sort of hair product and his pale blue eyes gave him away as a person of curiosity and ambition.

It relieved Hemmard to see that he was dressed formally but in the simplest manner possible: a simple black suit and a white undershirt. Only the white rose that adorned his front pocket seemed peculiar but in comparison to the freaks that he had seen throughout the evening, it was the tamest by far.

"Hemmard Wilson. I'd say congratulations, but you've probably heard it enough times tonight."

His voice was smooth and relaxing, like slipping into a bath after a day of being covered in grease and grime. Yet in a way, he sounded oddly prepared for their chance encounter.

"Just being nice, I appreciate my fans…" mumbled Hemmard.

His words were just as unconvincing as he knew they'd be.

"You're far more civil than I expected. I applaud your attempts at diplomacy."

The young man stood up a little straighter.

"So, how are you finding Capitol life?"

Hemmard stared at the young man, unsure of how to answer. He went with something safe.

"It's different to back home, I'll say that."

The young man nodded understandingly. "Ah, yes. District 8 – you create our Peacekeeper uniforms, our latest fashions… a valuable asset to Panem's culture and social order and a vital organ in the body of our nation. I have no doubt you'll represent it well."

"Yeah, so do I."

"You will."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.

"Uh, what did you say your name was again?" Hemmard asked.

The young man extended his hand.

"Snow. Coriolanus Snow. I'm the secretary to President Tide."

Hemmard shook his hand. "No show tonight, huh?"

"The Madame President has taken ill this evening and sent me on her behalf. I'm not a big party person though, so I've spent most of the evening in the shadows," said Snow bashfully.

Hemmard loosened up a little. "Tell me about. I just want to get out of this suit, it's bugging the shit out of me."

"Oh? Who is it, if I may be so bold to ask?"

"Something Merriweather, I think – someone mentioned it but I've had a lot of press to do," said Hemmard in a tone that was almost apologetic.

"Hugo Merriweather. He's a men's designer, rather popular with the President's late husband. We'll make sure that mistake won't happen again."

"Oh." Hemmard wasn't sure what to say. "Thanks."

Another uncomfortable silence.

"So, President's secretary. That must be bundles of fun."

Snow laughed. "It has its perks. I get to meet lots of interesting people and I'm interested in politics and we get to meet all the victors around the clock during the Games, which is fantastic. You're quite a bunch."

Hemmard rubbed the back of his neck. "Feeling a bit like an outsider, to be honest. Don't think I've found my niche in the group."

"Of course you have. You're the brooding, pouty boy with the ponytail who set those Career kids on fire. Don't let them forget that," Snow said with a wink.

Hemmard looked down at his shoes and tried to stop the smell of burning flesh running back into his system.

He couldn't do it and the screams began to flood back.

"Sorry," he muttered to Snow.

"Would you like some wine?"

Hemmard shook his head.

Snow shrugged and took a sip himself and smacked his lips.

"You know, it's such a shame that District 5 and District 6 don't have anyone to wear the crown for them. I was so keen to speak to someone about hovercraft aerodynamics, if I wasn't in the civil service I'd absolutely love to be a pilot. Oh well, one can dream."

Hemmard humoured Snow with a half-grin to show he was listening.

"Of course, there's less and less trains going to and fro from 6 these days so it's not like I can just up and leave on my day off to visit the Pilot Recruitment and Training Centre. Quite distressing, don't you think?"

"Quite," said Hemmard through gritted teeth.

He could smell their burning skin now.

"And I don't even know about 5 but at least my electricity bill has gone down!" chuckled Snow.

Hemmard could sense a hidden meaning through the wine and dreamdust but his memories were starting to choke him and he was suffocating.

He had to find Woof.

"It was nice to meet you, uh…"

"Coriolanus," said Snow pleasantly.

"Right. Coriolanus. I'll see you again maybe."

"Absolutely – it was a pleasure."

Hemmard stumbled away only to run into a frustrated Woof who insisted that he not run away every chance he got and he had more sponsors to thank and shake hands with and hug and suck up to if it came down to it.

Snow watched the boy disappear back into the crowd, his head stooped and his back arched into a defeated hump.

He smiled to himself.

Hemmard Wilson had showed no signs of proving difficult.

Not yet.

* * *

**A/N: Alas, college has returned. This means updates are going to become scarcer and forgive me if the writing or enthusiasm dips at all. I'll do what I can to write as much as possible but real life does come first, I'm afraid. ****So long story short: I want to graduate a happy man so this means less Hunger Games and more revision. ****I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though it was the shortest one in a while (which is largely due to my frantic schedule and most of my spare time being taken up by research for school).**

**A quick note to Paul – I would love to respond to your reviews to discuss your theories with you, but I can't as you're not a registered member… but keep the reviews coming, they make me happy! Thanks to everyone who reads and is still following, it means the world. -Kiliflower**


	25. Attilus

Attilus Crow is five years old when his mother gives him the talk, two weeks before the Reaping. It's the one all the children of District 2 get and it's about the Hunger Games.

He looks at her through a swollen eye and wipes at his bleeding lip, the infuriating sound of the front door swinging back and forth with its stupid incessant squeak. As she carefully words the Games in that small, submissive voice of hers, Attilus counts the bruises scattered across her waifish body: they're imprinted on her arms, her face – her neck is a high collar of faded beatings, her shoulders slumped in a hopeless defeat.

Father uses his palette of blue and purple on his wife and son's flesh. It hurts. Attilus was late for school one day because he was limping so bad, but it was his fault, that was what father said, for having too much supper and wasting their precious tesserae.

He knows what father's footsteps sound like and when he hears the crunch of boots on gravel, Attilus tenses and prepares himself for the beating that he knows is coming. When he hears the other boys at school talk about their fathers at school, he's surprised to hear their voices tinged with pride and admiration. There's not an ounce of fear or the kind of hesitance that accompanies defending a person who doesn't deserve an ounce of loyalty.

The summer after the talk, Attilus' neighbour goes into the Games. His name is Zephyr and in countless ways, he's the father that Attilus never had: he teaches him how to brawl and demonstrates how you slug a small boulder over your head with minimum ease; he sneaks Attilus into a tavern and shows him how to pull a girl and even gives him his first taste of ale.

Attilus watches him starry-eyed as he makes it to the final four of the Games and in that moment he thinks that Zephyr is the coolest guy in all of Panem.

The stars in his eyes are put out when the shrewd, inquisitive boy from 3 springs his trap and Zephyr is crushed beneath a crude mishmash of metal and fire, not far from where his district partner lies with her brains seeping out. Attilus' eyes are burning with hatred as a malnourished Caleb Flagg is lifted out of the arena above the decimated remains of the tributes from the masonry district.

Attilus doesn't move an inch, even as his mother wraps her arms around him. He can feel her fingernails digging into his shoulder, grasping desperately at his shoulders. He has to be dragged home and when he gets there, his father smacks him so hard that for a long time it's terrible pain to go through even the slightest exertion.

But this time is different. Attilus' mother is curled up in the corner, knowing that it's her turn next and then after, she'll be splayed out on the mattress and he'll force himself inside her and she won't scream so that her son will have fewer nightmares than he has to. His father doesn't see the remote, uncaring look in Attilus' eye. He glazes over the fact that the little boy doesn't whimper or cry or apologise.

Both mother and son look at one another and in a fleeting glance decide they've had enough.

* * *

Attilus is ten years old and about to meet his idol.

He's going as the class representative of his school to meet the most recent victor of the Games. It's part of a Capitol education outreach program to get district children more invested in their studies and in turn, inspire pride in your district and your country; something like that.

Attilus has his hair slicked back with oil that his friend Cassius stole for him. It's a cheaper brand of what they use in the Capitol, he said. Mother washed and hung out his Reaping clothes just for the occasion so that they're crisp and clean and presentable.

He rubs his palms nervously against his pale blue corduroy pants and can't help but think how gross he might look to the coolest guy _ever_.

When Shale walks in, he's everything Attilus imagined he would be. He's easy-going and makes the conversation easy, even when Attilus trips over his words and gets caught on stalling with 'ums' and 'so's. They chat about the Games and bond over how Shales' house where he grew up isn't too far from Attilus' place. He asks him to visit because his mother is a huge fan.

Shale tells that he'd love to but his schedule is so busy he doesn't have time for even himself these days. _But _he can send on an autograph for Attilus and his parents.

"Just my mom."

"Your Dad not a fan?" Shale jokes.

"My… Dad… died a while back," Attilus responds.

There's a silence that hangs in the air for just a moment.

Shale offers his condolences.

Attilus shrugs. "It was an accident. Nobody's fault."

He can't describe the sudden, engaged look that Shale gave him in that moment. Attilus was petrified that the victor could see right through him and was unravelling his deepest secret.

But the dark, curious look is gone almost instantly and replaced with an earnest, lopsided smile.

Shale ruffles Attilus' hair with a hand that's missing several fingers and says 'see you around kid'.

Gods he's just _too cool_.

* * *

Attilus is thirteen years old and screaming at the television screen.

His voice is cracking because puberty is creeping up on him, his hormones are making his body go haywire, he's angry and sad and a million things all at once but he picks up a ceramic bowl, takes aim and is about to fire it at the wall when his mother begs him not to, she doesn't want this, it's like having _him_ back all over again.

Attilus wants to make her see sense, that outlier girl from the lumber district is a nasty, filthy cheater; she just put an arrow through Gaius' neck. She didn't fight him with honour or strength or courage.

She was a coward and when the last wisp of a tribute falls to her bow, even after he pleads for his life, Attilus feels a wave of silent wrath wash over him such as none that he's experienced before.

He's watching Zephyr die all over again. Tricks and nasty surprises from scared kids who don't know how to put up a real fight: not like Shale or Marcus or even Mags.

He places the bowl back on the table and apologises to his mother.

But deep down, Attilus sees the outliers for what they are.

Scum.

* * *

Attilus is sixteen years old and enrolled at the Academy.

He signed himself up at fourteen with signed permission from his mother. Saying goodbye to her was the hardest thing he had to do, and he could feel her tears on his skin and her vicious, desperate hold on him as he had to remove himself from her clutches.

Attilus knew it was all for the best. He could hear her wailing as he walked down the slope, the wind whistling and the sun shining and that fucking door _still squeaking _and he promised her that he'd come back and visit when he was a Peacekeeper.

Admittedly, he's not the best student at the Academy. Not by a long shot. He excels at close combat and knife-work; he tears up the relay course and the gymnasium.

In contrast, he hits a wall at academia and what's the point of hearing Marcus drone on about how that bohemian shawl chick from 11 stuck out her frigid arena when he could be flirting with Pandora? She's definitely been giving him the eye for the past few weeks and he reckons she's the one he's going to give himself to… if he plays his cards right.

Of course, Attilus has his choice of women at the Academy. He knows it but he would never brag about it. He can tell how the girls look at him, whisper about him, their coyness and perfectly-timed blushes matching his intense, smouldering stare.

It's true to say that adolescence hit Attilus hard and it would be even truer to say that it dealt him a good hand: he was tall and the Academy let him develop a muscular, slender physique. His good-looks were more classical, dark and romantic and all-appealing. He woke up and went to classes with his hair tussled, barefoot and not even clean-shaven and the girls wanted him for it all the more.

His tutors, not so much.

Romulus insisted on increased disciplinary action upon the boy but Marcus had to step in and explain that his practical scores were through the roof and they simply couldn't afford to lose him. Shale said nothing – he still knew the boy from years before and, as a biased observer, had no input on the matter.

"Beat the lesson into him," Romulus snarled one afternoon during a private meeting.

Marcus folded his arms. "You think corporeal punishment will make him change his tune? Romulus, believe you me, Attilus Crow is not a boy that is easily dissuaded."

There was a moment of silence.

"Then let's persuade him."

* * *

Attilus Crow is eighteen years old and a tribute.

He's been handpicked by the victors. He was just as surprised at his selection as the others: friends, classmates, instructors. It wasn't exactly a secret that he was failing his academic classes but he had been brought in front of Shale and Marcus and told that if he agreed to it, he would represent the Academy in the Hunger Games that summer.

"I don't understand why you've picked me," said Attilus slowly.

Shale didn't look him in the eye. Marcus, on the other hand, was not one to be dishonest.

"You're a superb athlete. Your determination and unyielding focus on getting ahead makes you an ideal candidate. However, your lack of intellectual prowess is halting your progression."

Attilus bristled. "Are you calling me dumb?"

Marcus smiled. "We can work on that."

"So you are then." His brow furrowed. "Fuck you."

Shale interrupted. "Listen, are you going to be a tribute or not?"

Attilus slumped in his seat and seemed to weigh up his options.

"I risk dying for you two and old Romulus. Why?"

Marcus said nothing. Shale looked at him as if to urge him to speak and when his silence continued, the younger man rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Marcus." He sighed. "Honestly, kid, I can't tell you. But what I can say is I've seen you fight and if you do that in the arena and listen to what we tell you, you have a good chance of making it out."

The handsome, dark-haired lad sat up straight in his chair.

"Fine. I'll do it," said Attilus. "But not for you."

"Even better," said Shale lightly.

Yes, Attilus agreed to be the Academy's tribute. He wanted to prove that he wasn't stupid, he was just as smart as the boy who killed Zephyr, or the hippie bitch from 10 with her spiders-up-the-sleeve stunt. He would show them that he wouldn't let a factory slummer with a can of oil and some matchsticks get one over on him.

Attilus Crow was from District 2.

He planned to show Panem just what that meant.

Attilus Crow is eighteen years old and the star of the Hunger Games.

When the pedestals rise into an eccentric and eerie funfair arena, Attilus doesn't waste time and springs into action. He drags two screaming girls to the Cornucopia and slams their heads against the solid steel, their legs flailing and their muscles going into spasm.

The girls make a feeble, cursory attempt to escape him. Their dazed and sluggish bodies try to crawl to safety before a double-handed longsword separates their heads from their necks.

Attilus plunges his hands into what's left of their corpses and brands his initials on the flat grey surface, his eyes glinting as he marks his territory.

The last of the outliers escape the carnage with their lives and disappear out of sight. Attilus' allies look at the peculiar, potentially deranged man with a dawning sense of apprehension.

He's peering out at the arena, as pensive as one can be in such a situation, the lights of the fair's installations illuminating his skin as he tosses the head of the girl from the technology district between his hands like a game-ball.

He drops it to the ground with a thud and kicks it from him. The vision of a girl from 1, hand-picked from Calliope's throngs of beauties, recoils as it lands at her feet and Attilus hoots with glee.

The arena that year is an instrument to Attilus' macabre fantasy.

He and the Gamemakers work together in perfect harmony: outrageous and colourful circus mutts drive the outliers from their hiding spots right into Attilus' arms.

The sweet, cherub-like girl from 9 with the dimples and strawberry-blonde hair is indistinguishable from a slab of meat once the boy from 2 is done with her.

The mousey pair from 12 dies together in the dirt of an old, dust-covered performance tent, skewered on the same spear.

The last of the outer district children somehow manages to elude the Career pack for over a week. Hemmard does his best but nothing can save the little boy when he's finally caught sleeping underneath an abandoned stall. Whatever strength the boy had before has been taken from him by malnutrition and dehydration and he hardly puts up a struggle.

"Oh, I'm going to have fun with you," Attilus murmurs as he licks his lips.

He cuts into him some, a slice here, a dice there, and he finishes off with a permanent signature cut into the boy's cheek.

But he doesn't kill him.

Oh no. Attilus ties the weeping, bleeding, squealing boy from 8 to the rollercoaster tracks and trusts the Gamemakers to do the rest.

The chunk of metal comes speeding down the tracks, spitting sparks and chunks of metal and billowing smoke and fire and you can't even hear the cannon over the noise of the collision as guts and skin and bone go flying everywhere.

The Career alliance collapses almost at once.

Attilus' district partner is resting on a blanket of her own blood, as the red pool spills from her gut and neck. The sleek and prepared tributes from the luxury district are done with the potential second threat and resume their battle stances, elegant and efficient and repeating the six core disciplines in their heads as the boy from 2 glowers at them with malice.

It's the pair from 4 who is most eager to see Attilus dead. Their people don't take pleasure in the Games, but this is how things are now and someone has to come back so it might as well be one of them. The girl goes too quickly and as she dives she's met with a whizzing knife that lodges itself in her chest.

She stumbles and splutters, lashing out with her spear to cover her district partner who promptly lands at her feet, his trachea crushed and his front opened up like a cadaver.

The last thing she sees is what can only be pure evil.

Attilus kicks the girl from 4 to the ground and urges the golden geese from 1 forward.

It's an invitation.

The two look at one another and then lead their attack.

It's a short fight.

The children from 1 are skilled and move with grace and deft brutality. The girl is clumsy and puts too much energy into one swipe – her momentum keeps her down too long and in that time Attilus has buried a knife so far in her neck that he's hit the bone and the blade won't budge.

He looks at her district partner who's panting and circling him and there's fear in his eyes.

"Just us," Attilus tells him with a smile.

The boy looks at the corpses around him, gives up and runs.

Attilus sighs and picks up the spear from the fisher girl's corpse.

He lets the boy think that he's almost safe before the metal slams into his back and through his front.

* * *

Attilus is nineteen and back in District 2 at last.

"I did tell you I'd put on a show," he reminds Shale.

His mentor gives him the look that he has reserved just for Attilus. It's meant to tell him that he did the same thing, years ago, so he needn't reiterate his point.

Attilus throws his boots up on the desk and scratches at his emerging stubble as he watches Shale go through mountains of paperwork that'll no doubt keep him stuck in this shitty office of his until the next Reaping.

"I think that trip around the districts went quite well if you ask me," Attilus tells him.

Shale says nothing.

"_If you ask me_," Attilus repeats. He's louder, more boisterous, and Shale is just being an asshole and he'll no doubt be in a mood to talk when he comes over later to ask for the special rye whiskey that Attilus got as a gift in District 9.

"You know, ignoring my natural cheekiness and basic attempts at joviality won't make me go away," said Attilus. "I'm a victor now, same as you."

Shale's eyes shot up to meet Attilus.

"I'm glad I could save you, Crow. But if you ever again say that we're the same, I'll kill you in your sleep."

Attilus is stunned and leaves the room, indignant and confused and somewhat hurt.

He goes back to his house in the Victor's Village and momentarily forgets the fact that his mother isn't there to join him. She chose the house with the shitty door and the awful memories and the hill that winds up and up and seems to never stop.

Attilus did this for _her_, for all of District 2 and what did he get: an open death threat from his mentor and an empty house in the Victor's Village.

Fuck that.

Attilus doesn't care that he got booed and hissed at during the tour, or that people threw shit at him and spat on him or that he was treated like the most hated person alive. They wouldn't cheer for him so he cheered when the batons came down on their heads and arms and spines.

He was a victor and he deserved the right to be respected – to be honoured.

No.

He earned it.

* * *

**A/N: What did you think of Attilus? Tell me in the reviews, I'm dying to know! The First Quarter Quell is up next and to paraphrase Effie Trinket, it's going to be a big, big, big chapter. Thanks so much for reading and following along! -Kiliflower**


	26. Samaire

As the out-dated alarm bell signals the end of the class, Caris Smith once again tries desperately tries to hide the perpetual look of worry from her face.

It's the same constant apprehension that she's had her entire life. After seven years of surviving the reaping slips, she's accumulated a hefty amount of deep-set wrinkles that can't be wiped away, a lip that trembles when she's nervous or upset and baggy eyes that have long lost their sparkle.

Her tired, weathered appearance tricks those who meet her and she's often confused for being a thirty-something. Even when she collapses into the small apartment she shares with her parents just north of Turf-town, her parents croak at her in their feeble, senile voices. They attempt to be heard above the family being clattered on their left and the addicts in withdrawal on their right that she needs to just loosen up before she send herself to an early grave.

Caris mutters a half-hearted promise that she will, as she ties up her dull, dark hair and goes through her student's homework. She ignores the immediate wails and bellows that permeate the thin plaster of her flat as she goes over what seems like the hundredth test on the duties of a good citizen.

The pen scurries across the pale parchment and Caris corrects errors, half-attentive, as the trains screech and the whores barter and the late-night stench of oil and refuse begins to set her senses on fire.

It's the same routine. She finishes the papers briskly and looks down at the names. A few are neat, the calligraphy practised to perfection.

From the page, the children beg Caris for a better future in this hellhole of a district – to hold a baton for the Peacekeepers, to make medicine in the pharmaceutical companies, even to be an underling to the pilots at the Recruitment Centre, they aren't picky.

Most kids want a way out, anything that will keep them from the Turf, the cesspit that was forged not long after the Dark Days. It used to be the trading spot in 6, full of the best things in life, but soon it became the hub for cheap and tainted drugs.

The most popular of them was MB6, or Morphling B, a knock-off of the transparent sedative in the Capitol. Pharmacists in the district had been attempting to recreate the substance, though the precise intent behind their work was uncertain.

Regardless, one of their highly addictive samples got into the wrong hands and before it could be controlled, Morphling B had District 6 under its thumb.

The Capitol attempted to wipe it out. Caris remembered the men in the white coats with their shiny briefcases and their anti-pollution masks trekking past her house while she was prepping for her teaching exams.

The beefy, disgruntled soldiers weren't far behind them.

Despite their best efforts, the drug was being replicated too rapidly and used too much and with too many heads to keep an eye on at once, they simply left the district to fend for itself.

Morphling B was the reason so many of Caris' kids stumbled into class late with clammy, yellow-tinged skin and lank, oily hair. It was the drug that robbed them of their brighter futures and forced them on their hands and knees to the brothels and drug-dens in the Turf.

She saw it every day and it was the reason why she tried so hard to get them to work hard and remain focused. It made her failure that much more palpable and personal.

Caris gives herself the same pep-talk she does each morning before she goes to the school. She's the youngest teacher in the school at twenty years old. She worked so hard since she left this place to get back to it so that she could make a difference, and now she finally had the opportunity.

Sure, she may not have all the names matched to faces yet and she might not get on the best with all the staff but she's working on it.

She tells herself that she is in this place, at this time, for a reason and she will help the kids, _her kids_ for as long as she can. This is the job she was born to do.

She goes to school and before she even makes it in the front door the Headmaster pulls her aside. His face is grim and his jaw is set.

Caris once found the man's exaggerated ears and protruding nose to be comical, an inside joke for the children, but his urgency now makes him more serious than ever.

"Ms. Smith, there's a compulsory Capitol viewing at mid-day. You will escort your class to the assembly hall and we shall watch it as a school."

Caris' eyes widen. Her inquisitive nature gets the better of her. "Today? Shouldn't they be at the end of the week, I... I'm not sure I understand, why are we –"

The Headmaster's glare silences her.

Caris goes to class and puts on her usual sunny disposition, smiling effervescently and after she gets the class to recite the Oath to the Capitol as cheerily as is possible, she gets to work.

They begin with basic maths, reading and writing. A select few of her kids have branched off into after-school physics or chemistry, with the occasional child prodigy emerging and making a name for themselves and Caris feels a burst of pride when she sees their picture in the newspaper. This is a rare occurrence – most disappear back to their family homes and work on the tracks for the rest of their lives.

After she goes through the foundation curriculum, it's time for some vague history. Caris rabbles on about how District 6 began as a number of individual colonies near the rusted desert ruins of a place once called Nevada. She then goes into how the Capitol intervened and plucked the colonies from the dust and stopped them wiping themselves out with their constant inter-tribe bickering.

The children stare at her with their glassy eyes sunken into their heads, their drab clothes hanging on their emaciated bodies. A girl from the Turf lazily wipes a fleck of dry vomit from her pinafore next to a boy whose tongue just lolls out of his mouth like a wild dog and Caris continues on even though she feels like a failure now more than ever.

She tells the children the importance of the district's trains, how it's a feat that they manage to stack and unload as much cargo as they do – she provides a graph that details the typical annual import and export by a good, hard-working citizen – and wraps it up by telling them all that this is why the people of 6 should take immense pride in their labour.

A girl at the back of the room looks up at this and narrows her grey eyes. Her arms are folded as she tosses her silky locks over her shoulder with a great degree of sass.

Caris chooses to ignore her.

The railway workers are valuable assets to the great nation of Panem, she tells them, as are the pharmacists and pilots and mechanics and it's at this point that the students begin to lose interest in what she's telling them. The students who show no sign of dependency on morphling are just as disinterested as those who do.

When the time comes to go to the assembly hall, Caris thinks that it's about damn time. She has to escort a girl to the school nurse because the poor creature has been raking and clawing at her skin. That's how bad her cravings are. She was scratching beneath her desk and now her skirt and sleeves are covered in droplets of blood.

The nurse patches her up as best she can and goes with them to the assembly. The two of them stop outside the front hall and the little girl goes to join the others

"I'm getting too many morphling kids, Caris," she whispers, looking over her shoulder to make sure no-one can hear her. "I can't do anything for them. I'm just one person. What am I supposed to _do_?"

Caris doesn't know what to tell her and so she just does what her mother used to when Caris was upset. She gives her colleague a hug and reassures her with overused, sentimental words – and that's all she's starting to think they are... just words.

They go into the hall. It's cramped and small and hot. There's an unpleasant aroma that can't be gotten rid of and the old paint is crusted and beginning to peel, the wood in the doorframes is beginning to rot but there hasn't been a decent budget going into the schools here as far as Caris can remember. She expects nothing less.

Once all the children are seated, the broadcast begins. Caris sees that it's a live feed, direct from the Capitol. She feels a sudden turn in her stomach and a chill runs down her spine and she's not sure why.

President Tide is stepping out onto her grand, sweeping balcony in her blazer and skirt and a beautiful, shining broche pinned to her ruffled undershirt. She's looking thinner and paler and it seems to take her a great deal of effort to make it to the podium where she makes her speech.

"It is with great sadness that we must reflect upon The Dark Days."

Tide's famously booming voice is reduced to a hoarse whisper even as it is amplified across the lavish Capitol square.

"Those troubling times of deceit and treason from both external and internal foes led to the creation of The Hunger Games." She pauses to catch her breath. "While the Capitol has been gracious and generous in its provisions towards the victors, we must be always reminded of the cost of peace and freedom."

Caris' blood is frozen in her veins and her skin is like gooseflesh at the Madame President's next words.

"Thus, we shall celebrate The Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games as a Quarter Quell, the first of its kind and the like of which shall take place each quarter-century."

Noise breaks out across the hall. Caris strains to hear the rest of the speech.

"In penance for their uprising, and as a reminder that their children died because of their decision to initiate violence, the districts shall vote on the male and female tributes to represent their district."

The children are still befuddled but Caris tries to meet the eye of some of her co-workers. None of them are able to tear their gaze from the screen.

President Tide continues. "All citizens of reaping age and above are required to vote. There are no exceptions. It is an honour and a privilege to be given the opportunity to choose your tributes. Voting systems shall be available in your district's Justice Building at the end of the month."

Her lips curve into a cruel smile.

"Happy Hunger Games."

The broadcast ends abruptly with the statement Capitol seal and the national anthem is warbling over the stunned silence of the entire room.

It's the Headmaster that thankfully claps his hands together and orders the children back to their classrooms and he wants no shoving or pushing and you must all be respectful and follow school rules. Caris affords them a tight-lipped smile as they file out but there's a cynicism and a sceptical look that's returned at her and she clasps her hands together, sweat dripping from her brow.

The teachers all corner one another.

"What do we tell them?" whispers one frantically.

"Explain the situation delicately," offers another.

"The truth... we tell them the truth," Caris says in a shaky voice that tries to be confident.

There's a loud gasp. A man two decades her senior snaps at her: "And frighten the daylights out of them? At least wait until they get home so their parents can break it to them!"

Caris sinks her shoulders and says nothing. The staff can't agree on what to tell the students so quickly agree to evade the subject.

It's no good. The Quell has the children in a panic and it's all they want to talk about.

"Miss, what are we voting on?" asks a girl in pigtails.

Her question is too innocent, too oblivious and Caris' answer is stuck in her throat.

A voice from the back of the room answers for her. It's clear and confident and razor-sharp.

"I'll tell you all, nice and easy, since the grown-ups probably won't." Her grey eyes are like the poisonous fumes from the Turf. "Instead of picking us to die at random, we get the honour of choosing who we want to die in the arena."

Caris looks at the girl, the same girl from earlier with her hair as yellow as honeysuckle and her round pink lips and alabaster skin. Caris shakes her head and is about to dismiss her and calm them all down but oh dear, one of the morphling kids is in tears.

"I don't want to be picked like this," he whimpers.

"None of you are going to be picked, OK?" Caris tells them with the most courage she can muster.

The girl at the back of the room laughs, high and mocking and self-righteous.

Caris can only hope that her district will prove itself to be resilient and resist this cruel new twist on the Games.

Her hopes are dashed.

It starts with her parents.

They help each other down to the Justice Building in the morning and return without a hint of shame, even as Caris berates them with tears spilling down her cheeks.

"They're children, mother, _children_!" she shrieks and it's the first time that the lunatics on either side of their walls have been quiet for her.

Next are Caris' peers.

It's slow and they're more discreet about it than their students. Like the rest of the nation, they all slink down to the Justice Building in the dead of night, with their clothes hiked up above their faces or their heads bowed. One by one, they all fall to the pressure and face Caris' bitter, furious condemnation.

"We are _educators_," she fumes. "We are supposed to protect these children, guide them, show them right from wrong, not judge them and – and treat them like... like vermin!"

She practically spits the words at them. Caris finds herself eating lunch alone more often than not, which is fine by her.

Caris thinks that she's going to get away with her own personal stance, resolute in her defiance and her fight for the children, when the Peacekeepers come to her door.

The fight goes out of her as she stares down their visors and the barrel of their guns and, quaking in her boots, with her trembling lip and quivering nose, she's escorted to the Justice Building and shoved into a voting booth.

A cool voice with an accent and gender that are hard to place tells her to press her eye or thumb against the scanner.

She does her eye and the computer checks her in.

The voice asks her if she would like to vote for the male or female tribute first. She picks male.

"Reluctantly," Caris mutters. The voice says nothing.

A list comes up with hundreds of pictures. She recognizes some of the kids smiling or staring up at her and there's a knot in her stomach and a lump in her throat as she punches at a random face, a random name.

Riley Morris. Not one of her kids, at least.

The computer screen automatically goes to the list of girls. Caris is about to select someone at random when a face sticks out like a flat tyre.

She has hair like honeycomb and skin as luminescent and white as a porcelain doll. Her eerie beauty is set off by her sour expression, with the hint of a sneer teasing her pink lips and her hooded grey eyes both alluring and dangerous.

Caris' eyes flicker down to the girl's name and she suddenly realizes that she's _that _girl.

In that moment, Caris makes her choice.

The Capitol comes in two month's time for the Reaping and it's torture.

The rain is gushing down on the blackened, dirt-filled square and Caris' blouse and skirt stick to her skin and she can't stop shuddering. She sees several of her students stumble past her and they meet her eye and she can't even bring herself to wave at them because they know she had to pick one of them.

The Capitol escort is wearing a get-up of electro-magnetic panels that work in synchronisation with her steel-studded platforms.

Caris just wants her to be quiet and get things over and done with so she can go home and forget that this ever happened.

The girl is called and it's a surprise to see that she glides up without preamble, which makes Caris thinks there was some part of her that expected this because when she takes to the stage, she's all smiles and waves even when her eyes are seething with venom and hatred.

Her district throws it right back at her. It serves her gods damned, pharmanuts family right for creating Morphling B. You can't save the people ruined and killed by the drug, no, but it helps to get back at the people who deal it... which is why they chose her and the biggest dealer (and addict) in the district that's still of reaping age.

Even now, the boy called Spinner is on a trip, his smile wide and his eyes buggy and his skin stretched tight across his face as he climbs up onto the stage like a child learning to walk.

The Capitol escort thanks them all for their participation and out of nowhere the crowd are booing and Caris wishes they would stop, enough is enough, when a clump of dirt flies from the crowd and hits the podium.

The tributes' mentor intercepts a bottle that's thrown at the girl and both of them are rushed into the Justice Building even as the instigators are weeded out and whipped and everyone is made to watch.

Caris thinks she should be beaten as well.

She voted for the girl.

It's not long before rumours begin to fly.

The boy from 3 is an adept hacker who went too far and broke into district computer records, resulting in punishment for the entire population.

The girl from 4 killed her friend and business partner when the latter tried to sell their trawler to a Capitol investor. Her district partner is a rapist.

The pair from 5 had an openly incestuous relationship and they hold hands even as they're jeered to the stage. The girl from 7 is spat on as her district chants 'baby-killer' at her but she doesn't shed a tear as she's pelted with abuse. Her district partner goes to attack her on the stage and has to be held back by Capitol personnel.

Both from 8 are leaders of gangs that terrorized the streets and the crowd is eerily silent as they ascend the stage. The two from 10 had the misfortune of being young cult leaders and Oxalisa buries her face in her shawl to muffle her sobs, all dignity forgotten.

The pre-Games festivities are more glamorous and flamboyant than ever. There's a display of the tributes and the latest fashions in a parade and the competitors are pulled through the Capitol's City Centre in front of the cheering crowds.

Caris watches it with trepidation, curled up on her moth-eaten sofa next to her parents.

It's a poor showing from a surly and resigned District 1. The dark-skinned girl is adorned in a fabulous lace dress but her aura reads as disengaged and unhappy. Her district partner is just as displeased.

The meathead volunteers from 2 are in leather loincloths and flex their muscles and bare their teeth at the other tributes behind them.

"Defeats the purpose of having to vote for your tributes, don't you think," quips Caris in disgust.

The tributes from 4 are dressed as mermaids, rainbow-like sequins smothering their skin and sparkles glittering over their abs. The boy licks his lips as he looks at his district partner, who lifts her finger to him without a hint of shame. The studio commentators, Nigella Greenleaf and Spartacus Fickle, attempt to laugh off the hostility but Caris gets a feeling that the girl will come to regret her poor tact.

The brother-and-sister from 5 passes by dressed in avant-garde costumes splattered with sunny sequins and to say their reception is frosty would be an overstatement.

Caris cringes to see that District 6 is dressed in nothing but lab coats and frilled undergarments. Spinner is prevented from toppling out of the carriage only by the firm grip of his district partner and the cameras don't hide her hissing and obvious swearing.

"Isn't it nice to see that even opposites can support each other in the Games?" Nigella squeals.

The Sevens are frumpy and covered head-to-toe in a motley collection of colourful leaves that do nothing to promote their image. District 8 do a little better but are utterly forgettable in a fine suit and evening gown.

The Capitol crowds bursts into laughter at the absurdly overweight boy from 9, dressed up in designer dungarees. He can only stare ahead and keep his balance even as his small, beady eyes fill up with tears and his district partner, a short girl with a thin face, mutters under her breath to him.

10, 11, 12. They pass by dressed in designer ponchos, covered in exotic fruits and smeared in artistic splashes of coal dust.

Caris can see the tear stains in the 12 girl's make up even when the cameras cut away for the long shot.

Cicero does his best during the interviews.

The pair from 1 are utterly silent and just stare down the cameras – it makes for an uncomfortable six minutes.

The mean, wiry girl from 2 calls herself Iovita. She tells Cicero with unflinching conviction that she'll be the first girl from her district to win the Games.

Her district partner dismisses her the moment he takes his seat and informs the cheering crowd that he'll keep the tradition of an all-male Victor's Village going strong.

When Azure from 5 glides to the stage to a polite smattering of mandatory applause, she draws back her lips into a cherry-sweet smile as she tells her district that they can go burn in the afterlife.

Her brother Aron slumps back in his seat and ignores Cicero's question about his training score and won't stop talking about his sister, how special she is, the bond and connection that is shared between them and not even death will separate them.

His microphone is cut off half-way through.

"Samaire Bell, you are an _image_!"

The girl from 6 is dolled up to perfection. The duck-faced, moaning little freeloader her district sees her as is gone and replaced by someone who could easily be a young Capitol movie star.

She slides on up to Cicero, her tight gown hugging her slight frame, giving her curves and emphasizing her cleavage. Back home people mocked her pale skin but tonight it's smooth and luminescent and stunning, the envy of the nation's women, and she flirts with the camera and plays coy with the presenter.

Indeed, Samaire is the saviour of the night.

She waits until the last moment to get her revenge and pretends that she didn't hear Cicero complimenting her diamond necklace and diverts the conversation towards a one-on-one with the cameras.

"I'd just like to thank the district _so _much for all their votes. It makes me feel so special and I just can't wait to see you all when I come home so I can return the favour," she coos in a sickly-sweet voice.

Caris huddles up to her father as Spinner has to be reminded to take his position next to Cicero. The Master of Ceremonies decides to ignore his drooling and half-slurred filthy jokes and the fact that he keeps on interrupting him.

Caris knows the kid is in another world, one muted and distorted by morphling, but the presenter does well and when Spinner stumbles away it's with an air of relief that Cicero calls down the sad, pear-shaped girl from 7.

The rest of the interviews are hard to watch. The young lumberjack is sedated and mumbles his answers with his eyelids flickering in half-consciousness. The pair from 8 wastes their interview time berating one another.

The boy from 9 begins to talk about how scrumptious the Capitol food is and then breaks down in tears.

"Why did they pick me," he snivels.

Cicero pats his shoulder. "Your district believes in you, Miller." This answer seems to placate him.

The people watching know it's bed-side manner.

His district partner gives short, one-word answers. Her eyes dart this way and that and she looks into the blinding stage lights and suddenly loses her head completely, kicking off her stilettos and running off the stage without so much as a second thought.

Cicero lightens the mood and fills up the remaining time with an old story of his. It involves stage fright and too much champagne and the audience is in stitches with the farmer girl wiped from their memories in no time.

District 10 are serious and practised in their replies, 11 are bland, no doubt random selections, and the two from 12 just ask can they go home with trembling voices and shaking knees.

Caris brings her parents into town to watch the opening of the Games.

The pedestals rise into an ancient maze.

Constructed out of stone and located north of District 2, the walls of the old labyrinth are imposing and have a life and character of their own. You can barely see the skyline above them and the tributes all gasp at how enclosed it is, how claustrophobic.

The vines and tendrils that creep up their perimeters seem to move of their own accord.

There's a guttural roar in the distance. The ground trembles and the girl from 3 vomits on her pedestal with a sickening splash. The fat boy from 9 loses control of his bladder and his pants darken as the piss goes coursing down his legs.

Caris can't tear her eyes from the screen as the carnage begins.

She's an adult and it was her vote that put the kids in that... that _place_.

No, she has to watch.

Iolita and Gordian from 2 are energetic and eager and thirsty for blood as they bolt for the Cornucopia. The fervent, disconnected look in their eyes dissipates into panic as the ground beneath them collapses and the both of them are swallowed up into the abyss.

A massive cheer sweeps across the square, because the volunteers are gone, and there's a rushed scramble for supplies as the main competition disappears into the earth.

Some of the outliers avoid the bloodshed and make their way through the nearest escape route, of which there are four. Their boots scrape against the dull stone as they disappear into the all-consuming darkness.

The mobsters from 8 are too preoccupied in scuffling over the same backpack and hardly notice it being nabbed from right under their nose.

It's the girl from 7 that makes a spectacular sliding tackle that knocks them to their feet and as they both move to regain their composure; she's already made away with her prize.

The sudden silence makes them realize that the bloodbath is coming to a close and the both of them abandon their feud and sprint with whatever meagre supplies are still scattered around the gleaming horn of the blood-splattered Cornucopia.

A looming shadow trips the girl and sends a pike with a crude, twisted end into the boy's back.

The monster of a lad from Four moves toward the girl from 8 and she crawls backwards, pressing herself against the wall and bracing herself for the end. He approaches her, stops and spits out a spray of red before crumpling to the ground.

Samaire doesn't even bother to remove the blade from his neck.

"Piece of shit."

Her eyes flicker to the girl from 8.

"Run. Before I find a decent reason to kill you too," she snarls.

The girl flees without a moment's hesitation. Samaire grabs the plumpest pack left and two tomahawks and goes in the opposite direction.

With no Careers to keep the outliers on their toes, the usual plot of the Games is abandoned and almost all of the tributes go it alone.

Besides the brother and sister from District 5, the single alliance consists of the peculiar girl from 10 and her erstwhile, plain companion. The two of them roam through the long passages of the maze and quickly find themselves going in circles. Their frustration builds and it shows on both their faces but they don't have anybody else to rely on so the tie doesn't break.

The tributes find themselves scattered across the vast scope of the intricate maze.

The girls from 4 and 8 set up camp not far from one another in the western-most sector that seems to be a botanist's dream. It's practically draped in vines and moss and orchids. The plants are strange, though, it's like their movement is similar to _breathing_ and Caris swears she sees a tendril reach out and stroke a tribute during the second recap.

In the northern part of the labyrinth, the tributes are in trouble. The lean, precocious young man from 3 puts his foot on a trigger-panel and releases hidden darts that pierce his neck, his eyes, and his arms.

The pair from 10 doesn't hear the booming of his cannon because they're running for their lives from a monster. It can't be real, it's a genetic alternation, it has to be. This isn't how life is created. The ox that chases them hunts them on hind legs, saliva dripping from its fangs, red eyes murderous and horns lowered and set to gore them.

The only person stuck in the south of the labyrinth is Spinner. He's curled up into a ball and moaning, the intensity of the tracker-jacker venom mingling with his limbs that are so awfully deprived of morphling.

Caris knows that most of the Capitol will be paying heed to the eastern section of the labyrinth. This is where a lot of the tributes fled. The Ones are here, sullen and silent but still alive. The brother and sister from 5 cling to each other but they don't get a lot of screen time and Caris has an idea as to why. The girl from 7 is traipsing about and talking to herself, her derangement and paranoia growing as time goes on.

Then there's Samaire.

She doesn't stop moving through the arena. After she realizes that she's going in the same directions repeatedly, she sits down in protest and looks up to the heavens.

"Just some chalk, I need some fucking chalk, you can give me that much at least," she says aloud through gritted teeth.

Ten minutes later, the slab of chalk sails down to her on a parachute.

Her eyes light up and she starts to mark her navigation through the arena.

Unfortunately, so do the others.

Samaire runs into the pair from District 1 on the third day of the Games and the fight begins without a word.

It's two on one and Caris knows it's the end but Samaire has her tomahawks strapped to her leather belt and she sends them spinning so fast that the little blurs of silver whizzing through the air make just a small hiss before metal bites down on bone.

Samaire goes up to the bodies and collects her weapons. She's dripping sweat and her chest is heaving.

The Gamemakers have turned up the temperature in the arena.

Her designated mentor sends down a canteen of water as encouragement and she rolls her eyes but doesn't refuse it. She chugs it and it runs down her neck and over the fabric of her clothes and in the Capitol, the middle aged men do their best to disguise their hard-ons and women of all ages curl their lips and smack their husbands for staring.

The children from 10 spend too long running and crack under the pressure. The boy throttles the girl and sits opposite her corpse for hours, rocking back and forth, before wandering straight into the pit of the beast.

Caris watches it in the square and forces herself not to vomit as the animal feasts on the young man's flesh. People are still reeling from the unadulterated gore that Spinner's death goes almost unacknowledged.

His corpse is smiling. It's _smiling_.

Caris is in school when there's a commotion in the hallway. It's the finale, and everyone has to go watch it, watch it now, because holy shit it's just too much and how is it real.

The creature that killed the hippie nutcase crashes through the labyrinth wall where Samaire is crouching and recuperating after she disposes of the babbling girl from 7. It's full of rage and bloodlust and there's a couple of seconds where the girl doesn't move.

It seems like everybody is screaming.

"Let it have her!"

"It'll tear her apart!"

"Go girl!"

Samaire throws a wisp of lank, sweat-drenched hair out of her face and lands a tomahawk straight in the monster's eye.

The school goes silent and Samaire smirks as if she _knows_.

The chase begins between the demon of the labyrinth and the devil's advocate from 6.

Samaire follows her chalk patterns and uses some common sense and her gut instinct to make it back to the Cornucopia.

There's an overwhelming relief to see that the girl from 4 is there too, still covered in scars and tendrils and the acid from the toxic orchids still fresh on her blistered skin.

Her eyes widen at the sight of the thrashing, enraged beast with blood coursing down its face and into its matted fur, its claws swiping in front of it for any target, any at all.

Samaire is still running as she aims her last tomahawk.

The girl from 4 realizes what's about to happen about two seconds too late.

She gets the blade in the neck.

Samaire keeps on running and she doesn't stop. It's over, the animal behind her has stopped its rampage, but the girl who so resembled a porcelain doll thinks it's still behind her and she's screaming bloody murder, even when the walls formulaically turn to shut her in and keep her from getting away.

Caris watches the sixteen-year-old girl be plucked from the arena and she weeps.

Samaire Bell is District 6's first victor and the Capitol treats her like royalty.

Caris sees her in town one day and even through the crowd, Samaire's hate-filled eyes show a flicker of recognition.

She wishes she could understand that she only ever meant to help the kids.

Two months after the Quell, Caris Smith quits her job at the school.

Nobody asks why.

* * *

**The First Quarter Quell. I hope you liked my take on it. **

**Some things I'd like to address: ****Paul, Kiko, I appreciate you both as readers and reviewers. You keep debate going and it's always fun to see your theories and opinions. I'm glad to see that we're all getting along again! As Oisin said, I was inspired to write this fic by TVP and as it progresses I think you'll see the discrepancies and differences between them. If there are similarities, it's probably because the work is so largely influenced by Oisin's fanon. That's all I'll say about that. **

**Thank you for reading! Much love. -Kiliflower **


	27. Keelan

**The bookies in the Capitol couldn't figure out if the odds were in Keelan Stern's favour or not. **

* * *

**10/1 at the Reaping. **

The pickings were slim for The Twenty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games.

It was hard to out-do the explosion of colour and operatic drama that had been the Quell. People wanted their underdogs to be as rare a gem as Samaire had been, both scathing and luminescent and deadly – yet in the visual department, the outer districts failed to live up to these expectations. It was a motley collection of dank, dirty, whimpering children that shuffled to the stage in thread-bare uniforms and shawls and rags.

The seething fury that had not dissipated from the tribute vote overflowed into the district squares. Without a name to read at their reaping, District 5 erupted into a small riot. District 3 had its largest non-attendance since just the first Games.

Even the Career districts had made crucial mistakes. District 1 delivered in the looks category but forgot the follow-through. Their tributes were visions of perfection. They were also vapid and unfocused, choosing to revel and glow in the knowledge that all eyes were on them as opposed to what lay ahead in the arena.

District 2 had had its confidence shattered. The behaviour of Attilus in the arena had branded their tributes as sadistic bloodhounds, at least in the Capitol's eyes, and while that made for good entertainment, it most certainly did not make a victor good company. There's just one volunteer that steps up to the plate, a muscular and broad young woman who replaces her thirteen-year-old cousin.

In the Capitol, the bookies and pundits grunt in disappointment. Another year without a star or a stand-out – to be expected.

The footage from District 4 rolls in and Keelan Stern strides up to the rickety platform with swagger and a glint in his eye, a shark-tooth necklace dangling around his neck.

"Don't worry lads, I'll be back!" he says cheerily.

The chronic gamblers and the unsexed housewives and the hormonal teenagers don't know if it's his bronze skin or his messy hair or his crooked, cheeky smile.

Whatever it is, they want more of it.

* * *

**6/1 after the Opening Ceremonies. **

The chariots roll out and the audience coos at the silver-maned stallions with hoofs as big as dinner plates and coats as sleek as silk.

You can't even hear the incessant, mad clicking of the cameras as the lights flicker and the ambitious photographers for all the major newspapers scramble to get the best shot for their morning issue.

The grandest and most reputable fashion houses are out in force – from the minimalist Valens Voss to the avant-garde Sabina Alexander. The Capitol's most notorious fashion reporters unsheathe their claws and shoot catty remarks at the more unpopular tributes as they shudder and cringe in their unflattering costumes.

The commentator is trying to not sound bored as the serious and plain tributes from 3 roll through the streets.

"And a most inventive battery-charged evening wear combo from the young stylist-turned-designer Drusilla DeMarco and… huh… what is _this_?"

As Keelan and his district partner Demetria burst onto the scene, the crowd loses their heads. People are throwing their crisp white pamphlets, perfect red roses, evening hats, whatever they can grab, onto the ground before them as they eat up the sight before them before it's gone.

Keelan is almost naked in order to better exhibit his well-formed abdominal and pectoral muscles – only a single layer of cloth keeps the more intimate parts of his anatomy from falling out.

His entire body is painted in a vibrant, tumultuous wave that begins on his right foot and weaves itself up to his calves, around his waist, across his shoulder and then onto his neck. A light appliance of blue cosmetics across his face completes the look – the young man looks like he is completely submerged beneath the surface of the water.

"Fabulous!" shrieks the commentator from afar. "If I was a gambling man, I'd put my money on Keelan and Demetria of District 4, folks!"

The cheering swells and filters out to a less-than-impressed chatter with the entrance of the morose pair from 5.

In no time at all, the bets begin to roll in.

* * *

**4/1 after training. **

Keelan scores a ten.

He goes up against the training instructor and he's the best spearman that the Capitol has. He's deft and quick in his combat and brutal in his execution. Keelan on the other hand, is no genius, but he's worked on a trawler his whole life – he has callouses on his hands and plenty of stories to prove it.

Keelan has been watching the man's technique for the past three days and has his weak spots down pat.

The instructor prefers his right side. Keelan leads from the left.

The instructor is upright and stiff as a board. Keelan works levels into fighting.

Keelan feints and the instructor blunders and the fight is over.

"That's where I would've stuck him," he barks at the Gamemakers, pointing at the instructor's exposed stomach. The man in the darkest robes, the most important-looking of them all, drops his graveside manner and bursts into a grin.

Keelan smiles right back at him.

Even better, he bows.

* * *

**20/1 after the interviews. **

Noden and Mags insist that this is the easiest part. It's a walk on the beach, just breathe and answer the questions, remember your angle and look at what the other tributes do.

"Confident and cool," Keelan mutters to himself as Demetria fixes her gown in front of him. He tries not to stare at her bulging breasts or her smooth, pink lips.

He has to listen to the members of his alliance prattle on in unconvincing dulcet tones and laughable attempts at fierceness and use shitty scare tactics that not even Keelan would let himself be reduced to.

Then he's called up and the leather-skinned Cicero, who's getting on at this stage in his career, asks him a question.

All of a sudden, Keelan draws a blank.

The lights are too bright.

So many people.

He doesn't know what Cicero said.

Keelan tries to ask him to repeat the question but the words won't come out. His fists clench and unclench in panic. His heart flutters, his pulse races. He begins to sweat.

He goes to speak and vomits on his designer suit.

It's the silence of the audience that's the worst part and then Cicero tries to make a joke of it all and Keelan has never wanted to not be himself more than ever.

"Sorry," he manages to croak.

When his three minutes are up he's never been more relieved.

Back in the Training Centre, Noden pats him on the back and tells him not to worry about it. As long as he puts on a good show the Capitol won't care about the interview.

Keelan can't bring himself to believe it.

He trashes his room that night. It makes him feel better.

* * *

**18/1 on Opening Day. **

There's a short delay to the Games' opening because the little girl from 12 tries to kill herself.

In the two hours that it takes to smooth this unfortunate hiccup out, Keelan doesn't heed the frantic whispers between Noden and the burly, stony-faced victor from 10.

He barely acknowledges Mags juggling wishing him good luck with calming down that daft bitch Eirene and he doesn't even listen to Demetria's feeble attempts to get him to eat a spoonful of oat-milk.

Keelan is pale and clammy and on the verge of tears. He feels slimy and cowardly. Has he gone barnacles? Yes, surely, he knows it, he's another crazy one to add to the list from the fishing district and how is he supposed to hold a spear when he's pretty sure he can't even stand right now?

Someone helps him onto a hovercraft.

Time is a blur. Space doesn't exist. People are just flesh and bone and words.

Noden has his arm around his shoulder and is telling him to trust his instincts and watch his back.

There's a tube.

Keelan steps into it. Noden is there, foggy and clear and so himself.

The tube shuts. This is when Keelan panics.

"Noden, I don't think I can do this!" he cries.

The pedestal brings Keelan up into an arena. He squints in adjustment to the sunlight. He hears the gushing intensity of pounding waterfalls and the distant trill of birdsong.

Keelan forces himself to focus.

The ring of pedestals face a steel Cornucopia that is built into the side of an enormous hill with a winding road on either side of the horn. All the tributes have their backs to a steep sixty-foot fall that more or less guarantees a broken neck for those willing to make the venture.

A voice emerges from thin air, some supernatural force and it booms across the arena.

"Thirty seconds."

Keelan is drawn to a beautifully crafted spear that is propped against a large, bountiful wooden crate in the heart of the Cornucopia.

He looks to his left. The piss-scared girl from Twelve and further down, his allies from District 2.

On his right, the watery-eyed eighteen-year-old boy from 9. Demetria is four spots down the line.

"Fifteen seconds."

Keelan is making a plan. He's going to get the spear and then make it through the bloodbath and then… then…

Shit. What if he doesn't?

"Ten seconds."

Get the spear. Betrayal. Death. Bleed out and shit yourself in front of the country.

"Five seconds."

Keelan looks at the spear.

He needs it.

It's his only chance.

He runs.

* * *

**14/1 after the Bloodbath. **

The faces light up the sky.

It's not normal that District 1 and 2 are the first to swim across the vast expanse of stars. Their looks of assurance and confidence disappear in front of the constellations.

Keelan presses his shirt against his side to stop the blood flow.

"Shouldn't have… ambushed me," he mutters to himself.

He wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for his district partner.

The girl from 3 comes next, the one who spoke too fast and wore her hair in uneven pigtails. Her district partner is next, with his too-big glasses and his chapped lips. Both the little ones from 5.

Demetria is keeping count. "It was a massacre this year. Eight so far."

The babbling twit from 6 comes next, then the quiet girl from 8. Both the ranchers from 10 and the suicidal girl from 12 wraps it up.

The seal of Panem is blazing white-hot in the sky. The anthem plays. The lights go out.

Keelan lies back against the moist dew of the tall grass in which he has taken refuge. Demetria ties her hair up and starts organising her supplies. Her skin is milky-white and shines under the moon and her newly curvaceous figures is made more prominent from her convenient walk under the waterfall.

"Whatever gets the blood out of your hair," Keelan had said.

But now, he feels a fire underneath his skin. It makes his stomach twist and his hands tremble.

Keelan turns over.

There's some things the cameras don't have to see.

* * *

**7/1 when he loses his virginity.**

Keelan knows that the end is near.

The parachutes are falling. The contents include a round pouch filled to the brim with water, sterilized bandages and deliciously chewy beef jerky. Keelan has to force himself to not tear into the beef jerky when Demetria sidles on up to him and leans on his shoulder.

"There's just five now," she whispers.

Keelan nods, slowly.

"We're going to kill them," she says flatly.

"Yup," Keelan tells her.

He's too fast to answer, too jittery and he can hear Demetria's smile in her voice.

"Keelan, can we…"

He knows it's stupid, dangerous, irresponsible and everything that he shouldn't do _here_ of all places but his stupid seventeen-year-old mind wracks itself for a reason to fend off something that will feel good in this terrible, lonely, hurting place and in no time they're undressing one another.

He touches her.

She kisses him.

It feels good.

Keelan slips inside her and Demetria gasps.

A cannon fires and they both ignore it between sharp, shallow breaths and clumsy thrusts of immature lust.

Keelan is just finished and the two of them are lying there, breathing deeply with his arm around her shoulder and Keelan is about to drift off when Demetria shifts slightly.

He looks across at her and sees the knife that is aimed for his throat.

It's pure reflex that saves his life.

Keelan collapses backward and Demetria cuts into his shoulder instead of his jugular vein. She falls forward into the dirt from sheer momentum. She scrambles to get back up but Keelan is on her in a heartbeat, his hands on her neck, choking the life out of her as she kicks and squirms to escape his iron-tight hold.

In the Capitol, there are parodies made of the sex-turned-murder, the two naked bodies writhing in a desperate, primal attempt to survive.

Another cannon fires.

Keelan pukes up his meagre dinner of berries and water.

The Gamemakers decide to add insult to injury and call the feast right then.

* * *

**5/1 when he becomes a Victor.**

Keelan strolls into the meadow, spear in hand, and he finds the under-fed, unattractive weasels from the grain district scoffing their greedy faces.

"Save some for me, oat-shits," he growls.

The girl spins around. She's without a weapon and raises her fists.

She's the gatherer, or the scavenger, Keelan thinks with a sneer. It's the boy that's the threat.

He has a sickle. Of course he has a sickle.

The farmer boy puts on a brave face. "It's two against one, Four," he says, tossing his cruelly curved blade from one hand to the other. "You don't get to win this time."

Keelan narrows his eyes. "We'll see."

He decides to surprise them. The girl lets out a screech as Keelan rushes her and she ducks behind the boy, all forms of rational thought forgotten, and the boy from 9 does a Brandon Barlow and cuts her throat open without preamble.

"Nice trick, farmer dung. Your booze-brain mentor teach you that?" Keelan says mockingly.

The boy goes to answer, Keelan throws his spear and the rat from 9 doesn't expect it.

The spear is buried in his chest before he knows what's happening.

Keelan sits down and waits patiently for the hovercraft.

* * *

In the Capitol, Keelan meets a lot of gamblers.

Some of them won big bets on him. These are the ones that load him up with fine scotch or drag him into nightclubs and introduce him to their friends and wives and work colleagues.

There are other who didn't. They tell him that he's a cheat and he had no right to kill Demetria like he did.

He comes under fire from feminist groups in the Capitol, school abstinence programmes, the people of his district. Even some of the nicer victors treat him with an air of prudence and caution. Oxalisa and Mags never quite look at him like they do the others.

Keelan doesn't think it matters.

He made it home alive.

The odds were in his favour.

* * *

**A/N: It's good to get back to writing again. I tried something new here, I don't really know if it worked. Let me know what you think! -Kiliflower **


	28. Summer

Linon:

I hate fashion.

This stupid blazer lacerates my armpits. The too-tight shoes pinch and squeeze.

I won't even start on the trousers.

"Wish I could just wear loafers and a button-down," I grumble.

Behind me, Jasmia lets out a noise of indignation.

"You should've been born in Twelve."

She has been forced into something other than her usual funeral attire that the people have branded as her staple look, the dangerous woman. She received a package today, courtesy of the Capitol, a light and wispy pink number. Jaz looks at me through smoky eyes, her intelligent green eyes glistening.

"I double dare you to go a Ball in less than the theme asked for."

I sigh. She's right. Two murks who look like murks, even victors, would cause more hassle than I care to put up with.

Jaz leans over and evaluates her makeup. "I personally think I don't look a day over seventeen." She stares hard at her reflection. "I need red lipstick. Dark red."

"A little on the nose, don't you think?"

She's silent for a few moments.

"I refuse to let them forget."

As Jaz rummages through her handbag, I do up my blazer and turn to the mirror. While Jasmia may still be a beacon of eternal youth, as damned and deranged as she is, I am stripped of most of the effervescence and vitality I once had.

The pale, moon-shine skin has begun to grey and wrinkle. I'd gotten away with my dark hair for a year or two but as I run a comb through my peroxide-blonde hair, I fondly recall the time my flamboyant stylist Leon stopped bleaching it – upon my insistence of course.

After Glamour won, they obtained a new luxury boy and so I was allowed to grow out my roots once more.

But then the complaints started to roll in.

Peridot wasn't pleased. My fans weren't pleased. President Tide was not pleased.

I had presumed that a first-decade victor would escape a change of dye unscathed but the burning scalp was more vicious and intense than ever as the open pores on my scalp left blood running down my neck. My new hairdresser, a gum-popping, tart-tongued girl called Messalina, made it all too clear where Leon had gone.

The mirror hits me with the truth once more. My mouth is turned downward in its usual frown.

"I can't remember the last time I genuinely smiled," I say aloud.

Jaz doesn't miss a beat. "I didn't know you smiled."

I shake my head and don't argue. There's no point. Jasmia has a sharp, acidic tongue on her at the best of times and her temper is the emotional equivalent of dynamite so I'm not going to contest her.

Besides, she's right.

Jaz applies the last of her make-up and pops her lips. "That's better." She looks at me. "You won't be smiling for the Capitol photos, then?"

I laugh wryly. "I think not. They'll have to make do with a look of surly self-assurance."

Jasmia raises her eyebrows. "That's a good one. We need to use that for a tribute. Surly self-assurance."

I look down at a mock notebook. "My apologies, I think that District 7 have that one reserved for the rest of forever." I purse my lips and pop my head to the side. "We'll keep you in mind for next time, though."

Jaz mimes throwing up. "Stop, you're reminding me of the grand goose herself."

"Speaking of whom," I say. "Will Calliope be there tonight?"

Jasmia nods. "Of course. She trained the boy herself. Besides, all victors have to be there. You know that."

I wrap a tie around my neck. It feels more like a noose. "Be nice tonight, Jaz. Please."

She slips a crystal necklace around her slender neck before responding.

"I promise not to say a word if she doesn't."

"And if she does?"

Jasmia's eyes light up.

"I eviscerate her."

There's a knock at the door and I jump. As I scramble to secure the knot in my tie, fumbling and swearing, Jaz rolls her eyes to the heavens and glides over in dramatic stilettos.

The door swings open.

My Avox, an old rebel traitor called Nave, is stooped in the half-light of the doorway. Her spotted skin droops on her prominent bones and her grey hair tumbles down to her waist. Jaz makes fun of me for keeping her around, when the old woman can't even carry the silverware without making it rattle, but there's a spirit and a kindness in the old woman's eyes that speaks to me.

I like her. And that's what matters.

Nave sticks out a thin finger and twirls it around and then points behind my head.

"Thank you, Nave. You can tell our escort that we'll be right out," I tell her.

The old woman smiles and disappears back into the darkness.

"You understood that?" Jasmia asks me suspiciously.

I shrug. This tie is too tight as well, I think.

"You have a penchant for tragic cases, you know that?"

I look at Jaz, a war orphan with the issues to match, still seeking admiration and approval from the Capitol and her district, as much as she would never admit it. Her heritage, the Games and the m-word break her a little more every day.

And I'm the one putting her back together as she falls apart. My affinity for tragedy. It's true.

"Ready," I say at last.

Jaz accompanies me to the sleek town car that will bring us to the Pavilion. She makes a point of baring her breasts and teeth at the aghast escort as she slides into the car.

"That was unnecessary," I tell her.

Jasmia just laughs. Not unexpected.

As the car pulls out of the Victor's Village, I look across the gardens and think of what a shame it is that the beauty of its vibrant botanical life is stolen by the malaise of the Village. There are splashes of colour from the striking, regal roses to the passive white lilies – I see them all swaying faintly in the light wind under the moonlight.

Jasmia is the rose and I am the lily. Thorns and petals. Blood and earth.

Peridot and Glamour. Poppies, opiates. Numb and removed from the world.

And the last, the most pompous, rising high above the other flowers, genetically engineered to be four times its normal size is a splendid Angel's Trumpet.

The Headmistress.

My forehead furrows. The new boy has not made his mark here yet. I'll have to see.

The car begins the smooth descent of Harmony Hill. We both make cursory small talk about the weather, the overwhelming excitement of the recent Games and what a triumph they've been for the district, the usual banalities.

Our driver remarks that it's about time the victors got a party at home.

I agree with him, of course, but at the back of my mind, I know that this Ball is a ploy. It feels like a distraction, and a hurried one at that. This past Games has been indiscrete.

Yes, the pundits and fans got an appropriate victor.

But there have been whispers, rumours.

That the tension from the districts has spilled over into the Capitol. That there has been public outcry over favouritism and trained tributes getting better fare.

President Tide has managed to silence her more vocal critics in swift and brutal ways. But more are popping up, not as loud but still as present.

And you can't kill what you can't find. I know that better than most people.

During the last Games, Tide was withdrawn and the Junior Minister for Justice, Coriolanus Snow, had to fill in for her during all Games-related events. Her assistant insists that she's still mourning the death of her husband and needs time to grieve.

But what has it got to do with District 1?

Jasmia has no idea. I did consider telling her. But then I realized it was impossible. She's too irrational, burns up too fast. If she didn't dismiss me, she would save my half-baked theories to use as artillery at the wrong time and then we'd be up shit creek without a paddle.

The car begins to level out and we drive through the streets. A dark-skinned woman in a threadbare mud-shawl empties the foul contents of a bucket into the gutter. A gaunt-faced teenager and a wild dog struggle over a rat carcass.

"Must be fresh," says Jaz.

I shake my head. "I don't remember it being this bad."

Jasmia gives me a hard look. It tells me that I should know better.

We roll past a wide-eyed little girl who is by herself on the corner. Her greasy hair is tied into two scruffy pigtails and she's completely barefoot. All she has is a rag doll with a missing button-eye.

Her own eyes widen as the car passes.

She mouths the word 'please'.

"Can you speed up at all?"

The engine revs and the dust and gravel billows behind us as we power past the grime and rot and disease that people do not associate with District 1.

As we continue our journey onward, I notice an alarming amount of Peacekeepers heading in the direction of the Tenements.

"Jaz."

She looks up and her eyes narrow. "They're out in force tonight."

I feel our driver's eyes on us. "Just a precaution, I'm sure."

The feeling of trepidation sits in my gut and doesn't budge an inch. Between the Peacekeepers, the rumours and this party… I don't know. Something is just… wrong.

We pull up outside the Justice Building. It's a magnificent creation and its pillars tower above the square. It's the most lavish and luxurious in all of Panem – the air is filtered, the water is drinkable and it gets cleaned on a regular basis.

Jaz gets out without a word. I thank the driver wearily and step out into the cool summer air.

There's a great deal of noise emerging from the Justice Building, hooting and twinkling laughter and I realize just how many people I'll have to get re-acquainted with.

At the entrance, we are met with more Peacekeepers and a ferrety-looking teenager with a sweaty upper lip and a suit that's far too big for him. He holds his clipboard to him as we approach.

"Names, please?"

He's a Pavilion kid, grown up to be comfortable around high society, but he cowers in terror at Jasmia's expression. I put a hand on her shoulder and offer a tired smile.

"Corbett and Jespere."

The kid's eyes widen and he bows his head. "My apologies. I – of course. Please, enjoy your night."

Jasmia shoots the shaking boy one last look of contempt and then storms past the front-of-house security. I bring up the rear and enter the foyer.

To say the Justice Building is celebratory would be an understatement. There are sparkling chandeliers and colourful garlands, enormous tables covered with silver platters of every scrumptious food imaginable and at the front of the room four suited men play stringed instruments.

Some of the district's highest society are here – socialites, jewellers, herbalists, fashionistas, even the Mayor and his wife. They're all scattered across the room and sipping on champagne as young men and women in bows and ties refill their glasses with eager smiles.

"At last!"

Jasmia's facial expression sinks and I prepare for the worst as Calliope glides over. She looks as beautiful as ever in a soft, girly, peach-coloured gown that emphasizes her femininity. Unlike Jasmia, however, this suits her to the ground and she wears it with pride.

"Linon, it's seldom we speak, but always a pleasure," she says as she leans over and brushes her cheek quickly against mine. "And you brought Jasmia! I didn't think it was you in that pink frock, you look so beautiful!"

Calliope's words mask a subtle jibe and I quickly intervene before Jaz can spit back.

"It's some crowd you've got here this evening."

"Oh yes, just about everyone who's anyone is here. We've got waiters, food, wine – we're quite spoiled. President Tide has been too good to us!"

Jasmia cocks her head. "Yeah, shame none of us got a personal party for our victories."

There's a flicker of annoyance on Calliope's face but it quickly disappears. "Perhaps it might've been nice, yes, but I was never much of a party girl myself – Glamour has far more endurance than I do for that sort of thing. He's far more risqué and adventurous than a conservative girl like me. And you, Jasmia, do you leave the house much these days?"

"I leave enough."

"You should visit us at the Conservatoire some time. The students would be charmed."

Jaz snorts. "I doubt it."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, of course they would! All of them want to meet District One's first female victor." Calliope's smile widens. "For some reason, they have it in their heads that it was me."

"You did get a lot more air time, in fairness."

"Oh, did I? I wasn't aware."

"Well how could you not, with the size of your–"

At this point in the conversation, we are luckily interrupted by a server who offers us a selection of cheeses, grapes and wines, to which we all decline. The server bows her head and as she saunters away Calliope gives her a wink.

"One of my students," she says, as if the previous exchange with Jaz had never happened. "She was desperate to be here tonight. I asked her to prove to me that she deserved to be here. She did."

I rub the back of my neck unsurely. "I hope your students are learning more from your Conservatoire than service skills, Calliope."

There's a sudden chill in the air when the Headmistress speaks next. "Oh, a great deal more. We have an example of that tonight."

She turns her head and extends a polished, perfect finger and beckons someone over.

"May I formally introduce Mr. Summer Beaumont, Victor of the Twenty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games."

The person that lurches over to us does not resemble the sunny, affable young man who lit up the Capitol screens. He has a narrow face, a long neck and a sharp nose with icy eyes and thin blonde hair.

Now that he's not smiling, with his long limbs and gaunt everything, he resembles an unhappy stick insect.

"Summer. Congratulations on your victory," I say politely. "I'm –"

The boy cuts across me. "Linon Corbett. Ninth Annual Hunger Games. Terrain. Killed four. Knife." His eyes dart across to Jaz. "Jasmia Jespere. Fourteenth. Jungle. Killed seven, eight if you count the boy from 4 that you left to the quicksand. Preferred weapon is a falchion."

Jaz is bug-eyed and I can feel my mouth drop slightly agape. Summer looks suddenly uncomfortable.

Calliope grins. "Summer has always been one of our more eidetic students. His academic record is still to be beaten and he is a superb hand-combat fighter, as you know."

"You're well-read then, Summer," I tell him. "Was the Capitol party circuit not to your taste?"

Calliope decides to answer for him. "I think our boy is indeed a bit bookish but the Capitol has a way of bringing out your wild side, isn't that right?"

Summer looks at the Headmistress and gives an affirmative, throaty noise. Jasmia's lips tighten.

"And how did you come to the Conservatoire?"

"I–"

"A scholarship. He was to work here in the Justice Building library before he entered the Games," Calliope interjects.

"The boy can speak for himself, _Headmistress_. He's a victor now, not another one of your prancing ponies," Jasmia shoots back.

Summer's fists are clenched and he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here.

"Jasmia, didn't you say you needed to top up your makeup once we arrived?" I say absent-mindedly.

She looks at me like I've lost my mind.

"I said no such –"

"The bathrooms are just upstairs, first door on your right," Calliope says sweetly.

Jasmia turns and stalks off with a huff, making sure that her select-few words about Callie can be heard by all those present.

As soon as Jaz is gone, Calliope turns to her newest victor. "Come along, Summer, an old school friend of mine, Tourmaline – such a dear – is dying to meet you."

"Callie, can I – may I please have a word with Linon first?"

Oh.

There's a very short, very awkward silence.

Calliope looks at me and her wrath and toxicity crash into me with all the power of a tidal wave.

"Fine. But only for a moment. We'll be waiting for you."

She saunters off with an air of extreme irritation.

"So how are you –?"

"Don't bother with the condensed therapy session. It's still the same. There's nights where I think I'll never wake up and when I do, I'm not sure if I even wanted to."

"Summer –"

"Is Calliope watching us?"

I let my eyes dart across for a just second, to where the Headmistress is watching us like a hawk in between snippets of conversation. I grunt to signify that she is.

"As expected." Summer sighs but barrels on. "So, I need some advice. I was looking at some herring and pork at the market the other afternoon. I got on the hovercraft and decided that my diet had gotten worse. Much worse. I couldn't even fit into my new slacks."

His cold, winter-storm eyes are alive with intent as he speaks to me in what could only be code. It's like he's frantically begging me to understand him.

I try desperately to think of what this could mean.

Pork? Fish? Slacks?

What in Panem is the boy rambling about? I'm feeling under pressure as the gears in my brain churn in an attempt to figure out what he's saying.

I feel myself begin to sweat and I'm concerned that I look more and more like the ferrety door-boy with his armed guard and his total incompetence. I've never met someone so –

Wait.

His armed guard.

The Peacekeepers.

And then it hits me.

The increased amount of armed security. The rumours of treason. Something is going wrong with Tide and the establishment.

But is that what the new victor is trying to tell me about?

I decide to try and play along.

"That's unfortunate, Summer. Could you maybe have someone from the Capitol help you out next time you're there?"

Summer's brow heavies. "Oh, there's no need. They're already heavily involved in my diet plan. They're cutting out a lot of meat and they're throwing out my old wardrobe. So I'll get to hop on the next train out of here and by then I hopefully won't have a massive belly on show at the beach!"

I'm dissecting his words as fast as I can.

And it suddenly hits me like a mace in the skull.

Fish and beaches in 4. Meat from 10. Travel and clothes from 6 and 8.

There's trouble in the other districts and for some reason, there are others who want me to know.

Is it the other victors? Who? Why?

If they want me to raise arms against the Capitol…

I had a rebellious soul once, a long time ago. I don't know if I have it in me now.

"Well…" I begin again, not wanting to halt the conversation for too long. "You have nothing to worry about Summer. The cooks in the Victor's Village are the best at their craft."

Summer raises his eyebrows. "I heard you have a good eating regime – if you could help me out –"

But before we know it, our time is cut short and Calliope has her claws back out and digs them firmly back into the frightened young man.

The Headmistress looks me up and down with civility in her smile and venom in her eyes.

"Linon, you can't just steal my new victor away from me now – let me be the greedy one for once! I have people he needs to meet, you know."

I return the smile but it doesn't reach my eyes. "I'm sure you do, Calliope. And Summer, I'll ask my head chef what he would recommend."

"Thanks Linon. I appreciate the advice." He shakes my hand and I feel a compact piece of paper pass into my hand.

Calliope eyes us suspiciously before she and Summer both disappear back into the crowd.

After a few minutes, Jasmia returns in a foul mood and she snatches a glass of wine off of a shocked waiter.

"Sorry I'm late. I got lost. And by 'got lost', I mean I had to teach a cheeky nobody a lesson about what victors should and shouldn't be remembered. I saw you talking to the new kid. Do we like him?"

I look at Jaz and think about everything that just happened.

The districts. Summer. His desperate attempts to pass on an important message.

"Yeah," I say. "We like him."

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry this took so long. I finished up college, got the results I wanted, and am now currently in the process of moving, being independent, getting a new job, etc. Anyway, I'm slowly getting back on track with this story and am hoping to keep the updates more regular. Thank you so much to those of you who have kept with it! Kiliflower X **


	29. Lars

**The eight reasons why Lars Rogan wasn't as proud as people thought he was.**

* * *

**His father left his family to rot. **

Lars is just started school. His little sister arrived a few weeks ago and his Ma keeps her in light rags designed to keep a baby cool in the heat. She cries a lot and it makes Lars mad because he can't sleep, even when he counts the sheep in his head over and over again like his Ma told him to.

The baby is so loud and weepy that he has to count ten sheep he doesn't know how many times. It's so late that the crickets stop cricking and the sky isn't black and starry, it's pinky-orange and Lars isn't sure when it is but he drifts off underneath the open stable roof.

The cock crows and Lars wakes to the smell of fresh hay and old wood. He lazily stumbles out into an open clearing behind his house and crosses over to his absolute favourite horse, a pretty little foal he called Raisin. She's his best friend, more than any human, and when he's bigger, he's going to ride her around like a real cowboy. He'll be even better than his Da and that's saying a whole lot 'cause he's the best rider Lars knows.

Lars pats her on the side and rubs his hand along her neck. She nuzzles at him affectionately, swishing her tail and Lars let out a childish chirp of delight. He tries to swing himself onto Raisin's back, just like his Da does so easy with his stallion, but Raisin retreats and trots on over to the other side of the yard.

As Raisin's warm, dark eyes meet Lars with a certain degree of caution, he sticks his tongue out at her. "Aw, c'mon Raisin-bug! A cowboy can't be without his noble steed!"

Raisin gives a snort of indignation.

Lars crosses over to her water trowel. It's almost empty but Lars can see his reflection rippling back up at him. His Da tells him he has a pig nose and a bottom like a bullock and he's going to send him to the stockyard for rashers one day.

His Da can be not-nice sometimes.

Lars puts out some hay for Raisin and goes inside to the kitchen. His Ma is sitting in his Grammy's old rocking chair. She's making a weird hiccupping sound and her face is hidden by her hair. Marnie is making happy baby sounds in her arms and Lars is happy too because she isn't crying.

"Mornin' Ma. I fed Raisin."

Ma doesn't talk back. Lars is confused.

"Hey. Ma. Is you sick?"

Mama Rogan only clutches more tightly to baby Marnie and Lars thinks she must be sick because he remembers her telling him that when she was a kid like him her friend died in the Capitol and she didn't talk for a long time after that.

Lars wants to know what the matter is. He looks for his Da. He might help Ma feel better again so she can talk good.

He's not in the bathroom but he left his shaving razor and toothbrush so he must still be here! Lars' eyes grow big and excited and he realizes this is hide and seek. He rushes into the bedroom and gets down on his honkers to look under the bed – it's the first place Da would hide.

There's nobody there. Lars huffs in frustration and pushes himself up with his hands. He looks around curiously and then quietly goes over to the wardrobe and swings the doors open.

His Da isn't there and he can only see his Ma's lady-clothes. Lars blinks in confusion.

There's a high whinny sound outside and Lars runs to the open window. He looks down and sees his Da leap up on his horse like the cowboy heroes in the Capitol shows.

Lars claps his hands together in excitement and bounds down the stairs two steps at a time, bursting through the front door and onto the open patio.

"Da! I found you! Can you show me how to –"

Da turns his head, hidden underneath a real life cowboy hat and his mouth turns downward in a grimace. He rubs his chin and scratches his scraggly beard before turning away.

"Ain't nothin' I can show you that you can't learn yourself, kid. Left you my razor, should come handy when youse a man."

Lars cocked his head, not sure what he meant. "Da, you still gotta show me how to be a cowboy!"

His Da laughed cruelly. "You're a funny one. Youse the man of the house now boy. I got a better life in store for me than this."

He kicked the side of his horse and the beast took off in a whirl of sand and stone that left Lars blind and reeling.

When he could see again, his Da was just a figure on the horizon.

Lars thought he'd turn around and come back, admit that he'd made a mistake like the cowboy sometimes did before he gave up his wild-rovin' ways.

Da just disappears and doesn't come back.

* * *

**His friends were cruel and he didn't stand up to them enough. **

It never really occurred to Lars that his sister was different.

Well, that's not completely true. He knew that Marnie didn't look the same as him and Ma. That much was obvious. In fact, she didn't look like anyone he knew. Her bright, sunny face seemed flatter, her warm brown eyes slanted upward as she went about writing down her stories and prattling idle gossip to Ma.

Lars doesn't notice one bit and that's why when the two of them stride up to old man Whittaker's abandoned farmhouse he does it without a hint of nerves.

The former barn has been reconstructed into a school, with a white fence and a bell and books. Real official like. Even Murray hobbled down from the Victor's Village on his bad knee to cut a special ribbon for to crown it.

He notices that people are starting to stare. Must be because he's getting' so tall.

There's a huge crowd of children gathered. Lars' Ma taught him to count to number twenty so he stops there but there's much, much more than twenty. There's a whole lotta 'em.

He hears a shout and his big, bumbling friends from town, Colton and Pomona, burst through the crowd like wild boars.

Colton's good shoes are covered in orange dust and Mona's mad, frizzy hair is madder than it's ever been.

"Lars, can you believe it?" says Colton breathlessly. "We're startin' school! Look at this place! It sure is somethin' huh, I can't wait tuh –"

He freezes and scrunches up his nose. He points straight at Marnie.

"Who's that?"

He looks at Colton in confusion. "It's Marnie. She's my lil' sister. Marnie."

Pomona folds her arms and clicks her tongue. "I ain't never seen her before."

"She don't like strangers," Lars says nervously.

Colton and Mona both start to giggle.

"She looks weird."

"Like a pig. Does she oink?"

"Are you sure she's your sister? Lars, I think your Ma went off with a different daddy."

Mona leans down to Marnie. "Are you a bastard, Marnie? Your pop a crazy man from the desert?"

To her credit, Marnie doesn't react. She just holds Lars hand and tries not to cry.

"She ain't answerin' me!" says Pomona furiously. "She dumb or somethin'?"

Colton steps closer to her. "You got asked a question, stupid. You gonna answer?"

Marnie doesn't answer and Colton gives her a quick swipe across the head with the back of his hand.

She stumbles backward into the dirt, her favourite pink dress covered in dirt and dust. She looks back and forward between Lars and his friends and then runs off without a word.

Mona rolls her eyes. "Whatta baby." She turns to Lars. "We gotta seat for you inside. You comin'?"

Lars looks at his friends, angry and upset and bewildered at what just happened.

He nods.

* * *

**When he lost his temper he took it out on the people he loved. **

It wasn't on purpose.

Like a horse in a pail, that's what his Ma says fondly, just like your Da. Lars is ten and though he doesn't know the word for it, manhood has hit him early. He's shot up and widened out and before he knows it his old clothes are bursting at their seams. He has to go home to Ma, huge and red-faced and with the sound of laughter still ringing in his too-big ears.

It's a good thing, Ma tells him over and over again when he's sipping at his meagre broth. When he gets used to it he'll be fine. His Da had the same problem. His Da was awkward, his Da had the ladies before he knew it, his Da his Da his Da…

One day Lars just snaps.

"JUST LEAVE IT BE!"

His Ma just stares at him.

"Da is gone! He's gone because he hated you for bein' awful and me for bein' a pig and Marnie for bein' dumb! Now just shut up already!"

The next few moments are painful. Ma has to wipe up the broken bowl that Lars can't remember breaking. When he tries to calm down Marnie she cries even harder and Ma has to take her upstairs.

He never stops saying sorry.

That night, he asks her to forgive him with his head hung in shame.

"I'm sorry, Ma. I'm sorry."

She blames it on stress from school and tucks him into bed quickly.

The outburst was tiny and insignificant but Lars can't forget. He says sorry after he's reaped for the Games. He apologises after the arena. He whispers the words in a hoarse voice at her casket.

Lars still doesn't think she ever really forgave him.

* * *

**He had to kill his best friend. **

It's almost funny, when he looks back on it.

Well, as funny as it can be, in a way that feels like a hook tugging at his guts. Or a punch in the windpipe.

Lars was killing before the arena.

He remembers it like it was yesterday. He's in a wonderful mood because he survived his first reaping and even better, the unconventional faith-born, Oxalisa, has just won the entire district supplies for a year. He won't have to worry about extra hours at the processing factory for a while.

As a treat, he's taking Raisin for a casual trot out to the town and back. He beams in pride at the relieved pedestrians carrying crates of juicy fruits and ripe vegetables to their homes. Some of them even give her a pet on the nose and tell him how skilful a rider he is to have her this tamed at such a young age.

He lets her go at her own leisure to town and on the way back he has a bit more fun and lets her run. They breeze past the corrals and small farms, kicking up pebbles and sand as they go.

Raisin stops to investigate something curled up on the road.

There's no hint of a warning rattle before Raisin rears up into the air.

Lars can only just see the shape of the brown-white rattlesnake before he hits the ground.

All the wind is knocked out of him and he tries desperately to catch his breath again but it seems impossible to ignore the excruciating pain that's shooting through him.

The serpent has already struck once, twice, three times before Raisin stamps its head into a bloody red pulp on the road.

Lars manages to find his feet and totter over to his mare. She's no longer the timid foal from his childhood, but an elegant and majestic animal that is more than capable of being a… a…

"A true steed," he whispers to her.

Raisin doesn't succumb to the poison right away. She manages to make it up the road home some way before her breath grows ragged. The snakebites were aimed mostly at her face and the venom is affecting her nostrils and breathing in a bad way.

She collapses on the road before she can make it home.

Over time, people gather to watch.

The poor boy and his doomed horse, crouched together in a wordless embrace, the cowboy and his partner in crime.

A rough, work-raw hand passes Lars a knife. It's still tinted red from the pigs before it.

Lars knows what it's for.

"I can't," he croaks.

"Ain't no savin' her," a faceless voice tells him. It's haggard and world-weary. "Best thing you can do is make it quick and clean, or the vultures will be havin' her. An' trust me, that'll hurt more."

Lars' mouth is dry as he raises the knife to Raisin's throat. She instantly tenses but doesn't have the strength to pull herself up.

To calm her, Lars strokes her sleek mane, he whispers to her, hums her a song.

Raisin relaxes in Lars' left arm as his right hand gingerly holds the blade.

"Do it now. Firm and kind," the voice tells him. There's a hand on his shoulder.

Lars shuts his eyes and feels the sweat pour down his face.

He pulls the blade back.

* * *

**The Capitol made him a murderer. **

It's been a long three weeks.

Very long.

Lars is eighteen years old, the biggest tribute since Romulus. The Capitol thinks he has an ignorant backwoods charm and they don't mind his pig-nose or his large ears. They think his incredulous silence to their questions is some sort of part he's playing in their sick game.

After the penultimate cannon booms, Lars decides that he's sick of games and he wants to end this now.

He cuts through the wild plant life of the wooded arena and takes down an under-baked, jumped up mutt no doubt sent to spice things up on the long walk to the show-down. The butcher's knife that Lars got from Murray is a streak of silver and scarlet as it severs the creature's throat.

The Gamemakers lead Lars to a clean, ovular knoll. It's surrounded by miles of imposing grass and weeds that provide a perfect cover for his final opponent.

Lars knows that the last one is here. If he wasn't, there would be more mutts. And if they're sending mutts, one or both of them are in good condition and the Gamemakers are trying to even out the playing field.

They can do their best.

Lars is almost lost in thought when the boy runs at him with a crazed roar.

His choice of weapon is strange in that it's more of a farmer's tool, but the gore that drips from the end of its prongs sends a clear message to Lars.

It tells him that the last person to underestimate this weapon found themselves on the end of it.

The boy makes a meagre jab at Lars which he easily twists away from and his knife is out in seconds.

"So," says Lars.

The blue-eyed boy eyes him warily. "So."

"Just us. I won't lie to you. I was expectin' to be fightin' the kid from 2 right about now," Lars tells him.

The other boy laughs in between his breathless pants. "Little prick was good with a sword, I'll give him that. At least he was until I stuck him."

Lars dives at the boy and brings the blade to meet his neck.

The hilt of his foe's weapon comes up to meet the edge of the steel and the two young men remain locked in a momentary endgame, neither giving the other ground.

"Where you come from?" Lars asks him as he pushes against the block with all his might.

The boy's intense gaze darts up to meet Lars' steely one. "District 12. Not that it matters to you."

Lars jumps back from the boy and begins to look the kid up and down.

"What's your name?"

The boy spits on the ground. "Don't deal in names here."

Lars scowls. "Every person that I killed in this arena I fought on fair terms. I know what they were all fightin' to get home to. We all deserve that much."

The boy doesn't lower his weapon but he keeps talking.

"My name is Pewter. I have a father who has no idea that I'm his son. I'm fighting to get home to a mother who loves me and a brother that needs me. That good enough for you?"

Lars inhales and exhales deeply before he speaks.

"I'm Lars from District 10," he says. "I'm fightin' for my Ma 'cause she somehow raised me well even when she got treated poor. I'm fightin' for my sister 'cause she's too good to face this world on her own. And I'm fighting for me because I don't want to die like this."

The fight erupts into something berserk and animalistic. It's beasts and not humans that are going for the crown and he doesn't know when it happens but Pewter is a smarter and faster fighter and he gains the upper hand.

He catches Lars' knife in the prongs of his weapon and tosses it into the undergrowth behind them.

Lars tries to go on a physical offensive and surges forward in a desperate gamble.

The blades of Pewter's fork pierce his shoulder and he crumbles to the ground, splayed across the grass and about to die.

Pewter climbs atop him with a glint in his eye. "Any last words, Lars from 10?"

Lars decides to not be proud.

"No."

And then he reaches up and digs his fingers in Pewter's eyes. They burst and drip blood and Pewter is screaming and rolling around in agony, grasping desperately for his fork.

Lars brings it down into his skull and wins the Games in the most shameful way he can imagine.

* * *

**His tributes died. They always died. **

The train ride home from the Twenty-Ninth is spent in a booze-filled haze.

He had lined up sponsors around the block to sponsor his boy Foley. The kid was sweet and wholesome but still had enough bite to put the scare on his more intimidating competitors.

Foley died on the fifth day. Jerome tells him that this is good for a first try.

He stumbles straight from the train station to the tavern and drinks, drinks, drinks some more.

He talks to some pretty women and manages to sweet-talk the prettiest one into coming home with him.

Lars has had girls before – mostly ones from school with ribbons in their hair and short skirts and dotted stockings, girls that he thought he loved.

This girl is not one of those. No, she's not a girl, she's a woman, wild and fierce and she makes love with all of her soul and Lars is out of breath when they're finished.

The next day he wakes and she's already gone. He tries to find some cure for his violent hangover when there's a knock at the door.

Oxalisa sweeps into the house without an invitation, her long mustard seed shawl billowing behind her.

"I got a bad ambiance from your house. The Games have been stressful for you. I thought I would come over," she tells him.

Lars just stares at her. The dark-haired woman smiles as if this is normal and leads him by the hand into the garden.

"That girl was nice. A bit too sharp for me, but nice," she says absent-mindedly.

"None of your business," Lars growls.

Oxalisa doesn't heed him. "You and I, our people are… different in what we believe. You believe in the gods that control and judge. Your gods are a form of surveillance and vengeance."

Lars raises his eyebrows. "And yours?"

Oxalisa gets down on the ground and pats the earth. "Our gods manifest in the creatures of this earth in order to guide us. And when our human selves pass on, we join them in our new bodies. We don't cry for our families and friends when they pass because we know that they are always nearby." She looks at a ladybird that has landed on her shawl and smiles. "That has always been the way."

The unusual victor proceeds to bury her hands in the soil and carve out a small nook in the dirt. "The gods take form in the highest, most generous animals. Some provide nourishment and sustenance –"

"With meat," Lars interjects.

Oxalisa looks affronted.

"They energize us with milk and cheeses, keep us clothed with their wool."

"Right," says Lars warily.

Oxalisa continues. "Our gods can be tame and work with us hand in hand as the horse does with the man. Some are more mysterious and watch over the depths of places we are not meant to go, as the fish does with the ocean or the eagle does the sky."

Lars furrows his brow. "And what about spiders?"

Oxalisa's shoulders sag and in her sudden, fiery expression he sees a true victor and not a woman of faith.

"Some of us – and not all – believe that a venomous animal is the reincarnation of a person who did not spend their time on earth well. They chose to fill it with evil instead of good."

Oxalisa's dark eyes glint with danger.

"And Lars, you are a nice boy, but you will not speak to me like that again," she tells him.

Lars grunts in affirmation.

Oxalisa returns to shifting the soil and creating a small space between the bedrock and the surface of the flowerbed. "My faith tells me that we all come from the earth and in this way we are all of us connected – the gods, the souls of those who have passed on and those who still live."

She motions to him. "Come here."

"This is stupid, Oxalisa, I just –"

"Please. For me."

Lars sighs and crouches down on his hands and knees. Oxalisa places a stone in his open palm and folds his fingers back over it.

"This practise is common amongst our people. You will place all your mourning into this stone and bury it in the earth. Your boy will know you cared and that you tried. Afterwards, you will move on and return to this world."

Lars looked at the stone.

"I still don't understand. Why?"

Oxalisa smiled at him again. It was a piteous smile and Lars didn't know what to make of it.

"Because the living need you more than the dead."

From that day on, they bury one another's tributes together.

* * *

**He was a crier. **

Lars cries when Mira, the love of his life, agrees to be his fiancée over a sweet sunrise. She doesn't think twice and when he pulls her into his embrace he wishes that he could stop time still, right in this second, and live it for always.

He cries when his son is born. They call him Ramsay. He has Lars' pig-nose but got blessed with Mira's ears. A small tuft of blonde hair sprouts from his head and when Lars tries to talk his words are shaken by sobs of joy.

He cries at his wife's funeral. The midwife tells him childbirth can be messy and unpredictable and Lars can't blame himself forever. No amount of condolences heal the scar on his heart.

He cries because he has to be both parents and he just doesn't know how. Oxalisa has seven younger siblings and offers to lend a hand. She has no idea just how much it means to him.

He cries when he saves his first tribute from the arena. The midget of a girl sniffs at the Capitol orderlies, tells him 'I told ya so' and proceeds to pass out. Lars feels like strangling her on the spot.

He cries because when the Second Quarter Quell is announced, he realizes just how much he fucking hates the Capitol. The fire sits in his stomach for a long, long time.

He cries when Peeta and Katniss are saved because unlike the others, he actually believes they love one another. They deserve to have the happiness that he and Mira didn't get to have.

* * *

**Except for when he should have been. **

Ramsay Rogan is the first child of a victor to go into the arena.

He's barely twelve when his name is read out and he goes to the stage like a lamb to the slaughter, looking at his Da like there has to be something wrong and surely he knows someone in the Capitol that can smooth all this out so he can go home to the horses.

Lars knows that he has to be strong now more than ever which is why he surprises even himself when he doesn't shed a tear.

He doesn't cry when Ramsay is dressed up in a ridiculous ensemble made from wool for the parade. He keeps it together when his son scores a miserable four in training – he doesn't shed a tear when Caesar Flickerman makes Lars the talking point of his interview.

As a father and a mentor he tries his best to win a losing battle. But his son has had a target on his back from the get go and when Ramsay tries to dart from the skirmish in a metallic wasteland Cornucopia, he doesn't run fast enough.

The lad from 4 is the best spearman the district has ever seen and his takeout of the victor's son is on replay throughout the Capitol for weeks.

Mags can't even look at Lars. It's the first time he's heard her speak with a quiver.

"Lars, please, I –"

He raises a hand to silence her.

"No." There are to be no apologies. "Just… don't. 'Scuse me."

Lars doesn't cry as the fire in his belly swells to an inferno.

They took his pride. They took his life. They took his son.

He decides to repay the debt in full.

* * *

**The most useful thing he can do for the rebels is to be a scapegoat. **

Beetee Latier and Lars Rogan are not exactly torn from the same cloth.

They tend to make amicable, if somewhat forced, conversation during Games season. This dialogue is usually snuffed out by a fictitious reason to leave the room.

Which is what makes it such a strange sight to see the two of them having a quiet beer in the back room of The Cyclops' Eye pub in the less distinguished side of the Capitol.

"Good place, this. A hidden gem," Lars tells his fellow victor.

Beetee smiles and sips at his lager timidly. He pulls a face at the taste.

"Not suited to my palette." He rubs his beard in contemplation. "So, no point in beating around the bush I suppose. You know about the alliance. Are you in?"

Lars laughs dryly. "Nah. Never was an alliance man. But I will help."

Beetee cocks his head. "How?"

"I'll be your scapegoat."

"Lars –"

"Beetee. I'm still popular in the Capitol. I've got some strength left in me. If I live, I go back an' convert 10 for you. If I die, 10 makes a martyr o' me. And I… I got nothin' to lose. Everyone's happy."

The man from 3 seems to struggle with this for a moment and then relents.

"Very well. What of the other victors from 10? Are they for our cause? Can they help?"

Lars pinches the bridge of his nose. "District 10 is one o' the rebel priorities. Apart from the Career districts, it's the least swayed to the Mockin'jay's cause. Far as I'm concerned, Katniss Everdeen's approval rating lies in my hands.

The ranchers and town-folk are the leas' convinced. Murray was someone they trusted you see – he could talk sense into 'em."

"Murray's been dead for years."

Lars stares at Beetee like he's stupid. "Like I don't know. You sure can be dense for a genius. Veni hasn't forgiven the district for how they treated her after her Games. Besides, she doesn't take orders. You won't make a rebel out o' her. And most o' the district still think Lisa is a joke. But she'll help you, long as she doesn't have to hurt no one."

Beetee lets out a disgruntled groan. "And your most recent victor, can he help us?"

"He might. But the district won't trust him. He's too unfamiliar," Lars says.

There's a moment's silence and Lars is sure he can hear Beetee's brain gears turning in his skull.

"Fine. I… consent. To you being the scapegoat."

Lars smiles. "I can't guarantee I'll be useful to ya."

"Nonsense. I'll inform Plutarch in due course."

The two men shake hands and order another round.

"I hope you know that you're a brave man, Lars," Beetee says.

Lars looks strangely at the ashen-skinned man with the thick-framed glasses that shocked the Capitol and the nation when he killed six teenagers with the flick of a switch.

"Makin' up for lost time, Beetee," he says simply.

He looks up at the television where they're comparing and contrasting him to other victors through analysed video footage.

The boy from 12 dies onscreen, a gruesome death by any stretch of the imagination.

Lars can't even remember his name.

He takes a deep gulp of beer. He realizes that he hasn't drank in fourty-six years.

"Just makin' up for lost time."

* * *

**The girl he died for has no idea who he is. **

Lars Rogan is the scapegoat of the Third Quarter Quell and he's hounded by the Gamemakers. The mockingjays recreate the sounds of his games, they taunt him with his wife's voice and reverberate his son's death gurgles at him over and over and over again.

He gets torn to shreds in front of the entire nation by a vicious, nameless creature.

All in the name of Katniss Everdeen.

The girl from 12 doesn't know a single thing about him when she places a bouquet of flowers on his grave next to the commemorative plate that thanks him for his services to Panem.

Paylor tells her that he'll receive an honorary award in due course.

Not that it'll do much good, Katniss thinks.

She looks closer at the headstone and sees more names. Mira and Ramsay Rogan.

"He had a wife and son," says Katniss in a hollow voice.

Johanna puts one hand on her hip. "Yeah. Wife died giving birth to a kid that went on to be reaped because Snow didn't trust his dad. What's it to you?"

Katniss shakes her head. "I didn't know him. And he died for me in that jungle."

"I know. How dumb is he?"

Peeta shoots Johanna a stern look. "Not the time, Jo."

"Relax, Icing. I'm only answering her question."

Katniss kneels at the grave for a few moments with her eyes closed before she rises.

"I'm ready to go."

Johanna stretches. "Finally. Let's get out of this heat. It makes the shit stink smell twice as bad."

The three of them begin to follow the narrow, stony, winding trail back to the train station.

Katniss hangs back just a moment to whisper her thanks.

She's met with silence.

On the train to 9, Peeta makes a comment on the quaint and homely beauty of District 10.

"I could see myself living here," he says to himself.

Katniss ignores this comment and pulls her knees up to her chest.

"Oh, Katniss, look!" says Effie.

She turns her head and catches a brief glimpse of three horses galloping happily and freely through the fields.

There's a strong and broad stallion. He nuzzles a lithe and prancing mare with great affection as their happy foal runs through the fields and his parents watch him with great enthusiasm.

"Katniss, are you OK?"

Peeta is looking at her with a worried expression and Katniss wipes away the moisture in her eyes with haste.

"Yes, just… just tired. I'll be fine."

She looks down with a smile.

"Just fine."

* * *

**A/N: Lars has his own chapter in my eighteen-part fic about the dead Quell victors. Feel free to pop on over! I do hope you liked this chapter, Lars is one of my favs that I invented and I hope you 'got' him. Thank you for reading - Kiliflower x **


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